


April is the Cruelest Month and Other Lies Poets Told Me

by Isis_McGee



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Bottom Dean, College AU, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Face-Fucking, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Intercrural Sex, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Moments of angst, Past Relationship(s), Piercings, Religious Castiel, Slow Build, Snowballing, Tattoo AU, Tattoo Artist Dean, Tattoos, Top Castiel, canon compliant character death, mostly bottom!Dean and top!Cas, poet!Cas, students bonding over a crappy class, well more like past religious Cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-08 23:23:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 63,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5517005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis_McGee/pseuds/Isis_McGee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester is one semester away from getting his degree in business so he can feel prepared to take over his family’s tattoo parlor when it comes time. Unfortunately, his one last gen-ed stands in his way and every art participation course other than <i>Creative Writing: Poetry</i> is filled. The one bright spot in a class full of angsty underclassmen and a long-winded, self-important professor is Castiel Milton. He understands that Dean has no idea what he’s doing and when they end up sharing a book, Cas is willing to help him with everything else.  </p><p>When the semester suddenly turns into the worst time of Dean’s life, “everything else” ends up being far more than just poetry and it doesn’t make anything easier, in the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work has been a long time in the making and I want to give a huge shout out to my beta, [Ella](sadlyshy.tumblr.com), who was a big help and encouragement, and [Stiney](salesassociatesteve.tumblr.com), who listened to me whine and worry about this for a long time now.

 

Dean Winchester was not happy about being enrolled in a poetry writing class and when he entered the classroom on that cold January day and saw the people he’d be spending the semester with, he was even less thrilled. Every person seated around the large table in the middle of the room had the same distressed looking, leather bound, unlined notebook open and metal travel mugs that proclaimed them eco-friendly. Dean felt like a jackass, pulling his beat up spiral notebook and simple pen, the tattoo parlor’s name and logo printed on it, from his backpack. Everyone else seemed to have an endless supply of colored pens in their messenger bags that they were willing to let take up space.  He could hear Sam’s laughing, “If you took art classes, you’d be used to this” in his head and he scowled. He’d tried to explain to Sam once that it just wasn’t the same; he’d learned art through sitting at his father’s side in Salvation Ink, watching John tattoo initials and banners and symbols onto old army buddies before he’d allowed himself to get more complex and put mandalas and dot-work and perfect lines and whorls onto people’s bodies. Dean didn’t care to draw still life or nudes‒ even nudes of hot chicks‒ he practiced his craft by hunching over a light board to perfect whatever design a client brought in.

But he still would have preferred a visual arts class for his art participation credit. At least then he would know what he was doing a little bit. He hadn’t even read a poem since he had to when he was assigned them in high school, unless you counted Led Zeppelin lyrics‒ which, if asked, he totally would. He was preparing himself to be the laughing stock of the class full of what looked like 19 year olds, embrace it, write purposefully shitty poetry, and get out of there by the skin of his teeth with his business degree so he could take over the family business when he needed to; he wasn’t trying to win a Pulitzer.

More people were entering the classroom‒ a pretty brown skinned girl in a plaid shirt and a beanie followed by a woman who must be the professor, considering the obnoxious beaded shawl and the fact that she had 40 years on the oldest person in the room, which had been Dean up until that moment‒ who was in conversation with a dark haired man whose bright blue eyes could be seen from practically every corner of the room. Even though when he sat down, in the last seat available, next to Dean, he pulled out a fancy looking journal, he at least just had the one pen and a plastic water bottle. Dean felt like he’d missed the memo on bringing a beverage to class; he also felt that if he started carrying his flask to class it wouldn’t be appreciated and mentally shrugged.

“Hello, everyone,” the older woman said in a sing-song voice. Dean refrained from rolling his eyes. “My name is Dr. Jocelyn Meyer and we’ll be exploring the world of poetry together this semester!” She was looking around the room but her sunny tone did not match the expression on her face; a few students gave her small smiles that she didn’t attempt to return. “So, since we’ll be sharing part of our souls‒” at that, Dean couldn’t help but roll his eyes and the blue eyed man next to him must have seen it because his face twitched in a way Dean couldn’t read‒ “let’s go around the room and share a little bit about ourselves.” It was clear that the young man next to Professor Meyer was preparing to speak, but shut his mouth when she continued. “I’ve taught poetry here for four years. Before that I traveled and wrote. I spent ten years as a Rhodes Scholar in Ukraine and have two volumes of poetry published and a short story collection. I’m a wife and a mother and grandmother and a cancer survivor. The most important part of all that is that I’m a published poet, so I know what I’m talking about. Please call me Dr. Meyer.” It was then that she turned to the man, now wearing a fairly intimidated look.

“Um, my name’s Alfie. I’m a freshman in the English department.” He looked around sheepishly and gave a small nod. The girl next to him saved him from having to expand by starting and saying her name was Amy and she too was a freshman in the English department. As they went around the room, it became clear that Dean was one of few upperclassmen‒ the pretty girl from before was Tracy, a junior, in the photography department‒ and that he would be completely out of his depth. When it was his turn one of his hands came up to self-consciously twist at one of his plugs.

“I’m Dean. I’m graduating in May with my Business degree.”

“Business? With so many tattoos?” Dr. Meyer asked. Her eyes roamed over Dean’s exposed forearms. Dean gave her a small smile to match her condescending tone.

“I’ll have the degree when I take over my family’s tattoo parlor,” he told her shortly. She nodded, still condescending. He twisted his other plug, spinning it so the dagger design faced the same way as the opposite ear. He was prepared to stone wall this woman if she asked him anything else, but he didn’t have to, as the man next to him spoke up.

“My name is Castiel. I’ll be done with my English degree in May as well.”

“Well hopefully our non-traditional students will be able to bring some life experience into our poetry,” Dr. Meyer added when Castiel had finished talking.  Dean bit his lip and attempted to match the small smile that Castiel gave the professor, not making his quite as convincing. Dr. Meyer stood up, the beads of her shawl hitting chairs as she moved to the chalkboard to start what was sure to be a riveting lecture. “So, what do we all know about creativity and where it comes from? How to jump start it?”

Dean managed to take half-hearted notes from what she scratched onto the board, since she had basically come right out and told them there would be a quiz the next class period. It all seemed like junk to Dean, but he could try to memorize left brain, right brain, theta wave bullshit if it would get him out of school. When the class period was done, he was the first person out the door, probably thanks to his lack of full rainbow of pens, thankful he could be in his car with his tunes on his way to his real work. He had to get the books that were listed on the syllabus, which he had barely glanced at, but he’d made an appointment with a repeat client to finish up a chest piece he’d been working on for months and there was no way he’d let himself be late in order to buy poetry books.

***

Dean saw that he wasn’t the only one who’d waited until the last minute to get his books when he was in the aisle the sleep deprived sophomore had pointed him toward. Castiel was there searching the shelf in front of him. He already had one slim volume in his hand and his other trailed across the spines.

“Hey,” Dean started, trying not to startle the other man, since he assumed that was where he needed to be as well. Castiel turned at the sound of the greeting.

“Hello, Dean,” he said it in a tone that had Dean nodding to reassure him that he’d gotten his name correct.

“It’s Castiel, right?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “Am I in your way?”

“Only if you won’t point out which of those books we need for this class.” Castiel gave a small smile and pulled out a thick book with “Norton Anthology” stamped on the side.

“Dr. Meyer has put a rather large number of books on the syllabus‒”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Dean complained.

“I’m not entirely sure we’ll need all of them, to be honest,” Castiel admitted.  Dean nodded at the book already in Castiel’s hand and raised the one Castiel has just placed in his.

“You think we’ll need that one and this brick though?”

Castiel raised the book in his hand. “This is one of Dr. Meyer’s own works. I have a problem with creative writing teachers using their classes to push their own work, but I’ve read some of her poetry before and I don’t hate it. I think that showing up to class with it might make her more palatable as an instructor.”  Castiel seemed to realize how much he’d just spoken and looked sheepish. “I’m sorry; there’s no reason for you to care about my personal thoughts on that matter.”

Dean laughed a little. “It’s alright. Means I get to tell you how much I hated that class on Tuesday, right?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“So, yeah. I really hated Tuesday’s class.” Dean grinned up at Castiel. His grin fell into a grimace as he saw the price tag on the back of the book in his hands.

“I hope that Dr. Meyer won’t put you off the subject completely. If I may ask, since it appears that we’re being too familiar with each other, why choose poetry as a business major? Especially one that seems to have visual artistic talent?”

“I spend half of my work day with my face inches from strangers’ skin, asking about a class isn’t exactly what I’d call too familiar,” Dean smirked. It had been a while since he’d gotten to talk about his own studies with someone in person without feeling dumb and he found himself warming to the subject and the man he was having it with. It didn’t hurt that it seemed as though Castiel was genuinely curious and had paid him a compliment. “It’s the only one that wasn’t full and fit into my schedule. I’m completely out of my depth. No matter how many times I’ve had to tattoo ‘I am, I am, I am’ onto chicks wearing dark framed glasses.”

“That’s actually from a novel. The only one Sylvia Plath wrote.” The words left Castiel’s mouth before he realized how rude they sounded. He colored. “I’m sorry.”

Dean waved a hand and went to look for the other books on the syllabus; he thought he should probably have more than one of them, even if the one in his hand was much more expensive than he’d like. He tried not to let the defensiveness he felt seep into his shoulders. “Like I said, I’m way out of my depth.”

Castiel made a murmur to confirm he was listening. As Dean continued to look through the books, he began to get annoyed.

“Which are you looking for?” Castiel asked.

“The one you’ve got. Having the professor’s book isn’t such a bad idea.”

“Oh, no,” Castiel started. Dean turned with an eyebrow raised. “I think I may have grabbed the last copy.” Dean opened his mouth to say something but Castiel cut him off, thrusting the book at Dean. “You can take it.”

“No, man. You got here, you take it.”

“No, really, I insist. If you’re not a poet, it may help.”

“Uh-uh, it’s all yours. You had it first, and that’s only fair. I’ll get by with this one.”

Castiel still had his hand out, the book practically pressed against Dean.  He pulled it back toward him and considered it. “What if we shared?”

“You askin’ to be study partners, Cas?” Dean asked with a smirk. He asked as though it were a joke, but it probably wouldn’t hurt to have some help in the class; he certainly wasn’t about to ask one of the underclassmen in the course. 

“Yes, I suppose I am.”

Dean looked at the other man and nodded after a moment of looking sufficiently doubtful. “Yeah, alright. But, just so you know, I’m a terrible partner. You willing to put up with a guy who doesn’t know what he’s doing when you seem to?”

“Believe me, I have my own doubts,” was Castiel’s reply. “Shall we go to class then?”

Dean held out a hand to indicate that the other man should lead and they paid for their purchases. As they walked to class, they discussed what would be on the quiz they no doubt would be doing first thing. Dean also asked if Cas thought he’d be able to get away with just writing song lyrics if they were told to write after the quiz. He laughed, hard, at Cas’ affronted look.

Class was just as bad as it had been previously, with Dr. Meyer spending a solid forty-five minutes talking about just her life and how it inspired her poetry; that was all well and fine, but nothing in her life was applicable to Dean and the shit that he’d seen. Yes, he’d traveled; he’d seen every state in the continental US twice if not more. They’d bounced around, John Winchester taking jobs wherever he could find them, in tattoo parlors and in factories and in bars, until Dean had been 16 and Sam 12 before John had settled back in Lawrence, Kansas despite the ghosts in the town. Even though he’d been there for ten years, it still didn’t feel like home. There were days he half expected to pick up and move, be told to throw his stuff in a bag and be in the car at 0500 because John was expected at a job half way across the country by that night. It was easy for Dean to forget that even if John suddenly had to abandon his shop for another town, another place, that he was an adult and that he could run the shop and his life; he could stay in Kansas in the house he still shared with John and the Impala that had become his at 18. The shop and that car were home and, unless Dean wanted it to, that wouldn’t change. So he had no familiarity with the luxury of getting on a plane and flying to Ukraine or Botswana or India or wherever Dr. Meyer was waxing poetic about at the moment. And frankly, he had no desire to‒ the very concept of flying terrified him.

The nice thing about her long winded ramble was that it meant they took the quiz, were given their assignment, and then let out early. Dean was the first one out of the room, but he felt his phone vibrate and got caught up in the hallway before the stairs reading the text Sam had sent him that said Dean’d love his anthro professor because _he quoted Floyd today_ and Cas nearly ran into him.

“You didn’t have to resort to song lyrics,” Cas pointed out. Dean couldn’t help but grin about it. “Do you want to take the book tonight to get our assignment done?  We can exchange numbers and you can tell me whenever I can come get it from you.”

“You know, if you wanted my number, you could have just asked instead of cooking up this whole scheme,” Dean said. His grin had turned into a smirk as he teased Cas; he couldn’t help it. He’d grown up hyper-aware of what he looked like, with people leering at him since he was 15 in the restaurant bars John dragged his sons into so he could hustle pool or poker. Nothing had ever happened so he didn’t mind, but his first instinct was to flirt with anyone remotely attractive and see what happened; it usually resulted in better tips with phone number written on receipts. 

Cas, however, seemed to take issue in the sense that he blushed, looking down and his cheeks flushing. Dean almost wanted to take it back when the man started to speak and it came out in a stuttering apology.

“I’m just joking,” Dean interrupted. “That sounds like it’ll work. What’s your number?” After he’d plugged the digits into his phone, and he sent a quick text making sure he’d gotten it correct, he received a nod. “I’ll try not to keep this reading until Monday night, but I can’t make any promises.”

“Let me know. Have a good weekend, Dean.”

“Yeah, you too, Cas.” With a small wave, Cas went through the door and Dean responded to his brother’s text by congratulating him on recognizing the quote‒ _surprised that emo bullshit hasn’t taken over your brain_. Sam’s response, an hour later when Dean was at the shop, was a simple _jerk_ and Dean grinned.

“Never seen you grin like that at a book, Dean,” John said from his work station.  He was working on a sketch of what would eventually turn into a full back piece for a client that had been in the shop a number of times. Dean started to shake his head even before his father had finished speaking.

“It’s definitely not this book. Just Sam,” he explained. He was thankful that they were at a point where Dean could tell John he was still in contact with his brother. When Sam had said he was going to Stanford, it had caused a massive rift between John Winchester and his second son. John was too used to being on the move, too used to trying to take care of his sons by any means necessary and being constantly worried for them to like the idea of Sam being across the country from his family. He and Sam may not be close, and they maybe still butted heads most of the time they were around each other, but John had moved past his feelings that “if Sam wanted to abandon his family, then he can be on his own” and Dean no longer had to lie about talking to him.

John made a noncommittal sound and changed the subject. “What is it that you’re reading anyway? Shouldn’t you being doing some work around here? Jo Harvelle’s got that appointment with you tomorrow. Complicated piece of line work.”

“I got that sketch done the day after she came in. Even got a couple different options for her.”

“Good man,” John said under his breath. Dean pretended he hadn’t heard it, as was customary between them, and answered John’s other question.

“It’s this book for my art participation class. Only open spot was poetry and now I’m stuck reading this shit.”

“And you’re reading it on Thursday instead of Monday night?” John sounded as though he was more surprised by Dean doing the reading at all, but he wasn’t going to say that.

“Sharing the book with somebody.” At that, John nodded and turned back to his sketch. Dean went back to his reading and as he continued, he wondered about having asked Cas to be his study partner; he’d said he didn’t hate Dr. Meyer’s poetry, but man, Dean didn’t understand how it even was poetry‒ it sucked. In one poem he didn’t understand how it wasn’t just a story and in the next he was looking up every other word. It was confusing and inconsistent and he hoped to god that no one in their class tried to emulate the professor when they finally got to writing their own poems. It was going to be a long semester.

But thankfully, the reading assignment from Dr. Meyer’s book wasn’t long and he could text Cas that the book was his whenever he wanted it long before he’d expected to be able to.  Cas had texted him back within seconds: _I could come get it now if it wouldn’t be any trouble._ Dean could hear John straightening out his sketch paper as he responded: _I’m at work, but sure you can get it._ He tacked the parlor’s address onto the end of the message and hit send. John was standing up.

“You want some grub?” John asked as he twisted around the stretch his back. “Was thinking about grabbing some Spanky’s.”

“Yeah, I could go for some Greek.”

John shrugged on his coat and rattled his keys out of his pocket. “Alright, hold down the fort. Souvlaki and fries and a coke coming up.”

“Thanks, Dad!” Dean called as John left the shop. Dean shuffled through the sketches he had started and looked for what he had done for Jo Harvelle; he thought he’d gotten what she wanted down onto paper, but he didn’t think there wasn’t room for improvement. It was small, that was why John had said it was complicated, but it, in theory, was a simple enough design. A small dagger that Jo wanted to look realistic, but not hyper-realistic. It was a vague style request, but Dean made a living dealing with even worse ones. He knew Jo well enough to know what she meant either way.

He was two pencil strokes into a new draft of the sketch when he heard the bell above the door chime. He looked up and gave a small smile at Cas. Cas was too busy looking around the shop to really notice. Cocking his head to the side, Cas examined the flash on the walls, his eyes roaming over designs that were present in every tattoo parlor in America and a few that were fairly unique to Salvation Ink.

“You here for the book or for a tattoo?” Dean asked.

Cas gave a wry smile.

“Most certainly for the book, I’m afraid. There’s nothing I would want permanently on me anymore.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Anymore?”

“At one time I had complete faith in something that wouldn’t really let me permanently mark my body anyway, but I’ve since lost it, if I’m being open.” Cas must have realized how open it actually had been, to tell a man he’d barely known for a week something that seemed so personal, and he blushed a little. “I’m sorry.”

Dean waved it off, though he found himself for some reason wanting to tell Cas to go on and explain himself further. Part of it was professional curiosity, wanting to know what Cas would have wanted as a tattoo, but it was more than that. It was already clear that the two of them were going to be each other’s saving grace in their class, since they weren’t 19 years old or their barmy teacher, and Dean wanted to know about Castiel Milton for that too.

“I’m gonna need you to explain how some of this is even poetry,” Dean told him as he handed over the book. “It just looks like a story that someone forgot how to write.”

“Yes, well, as I went back and read more of Professor Meyer’s work, I was re-thinking my assessment of it. It isn’t terrible, but I did like it much more before I’d met her.”

Dean laughed out loud at that and Cas tucked the book into the messenger bag he had slung over his shoulder. He was still glancing around the shop, but inconspicuously.

“Did you do all these yourself?”

“Nah, some of them are just your general flash designs any tattoo artist can do if that’s what you want. Most of the really original work that my dad and I have done is in the portfolios up front there,” Dean said with a finger pointing toward the couch area in the front of the shop. “The walls are just for people to get inspiration if they need it. Give them an idea of what we can do. Some of it’s hand drawn by one of us, but mostly no.”

Cas had crossed to one of the walls while Dean was speaking and he stuck a finger out, indicating a lily. “Did you do this one?” Dean shook his head no and it made Cas point to another, this time a rose. It wasn’t until Cas pointed to a many-petaled lotus flower that Dean could nod.  “They’re all lovely.”

“Thanks. It’s hard to fuck up a flower, really.”

“I would,” Cas said, readily. “You do them beautifully.” Dean tried not to shift on his feet in discomfort. Cas noticed and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry for interrupting your work, and I’m sorry the assignment wasn’t great. Perhaps before class we can talk about a few of the poems. If you want, of course. If you think it will help.”

There was something that made Dean start saying “Sure,” before he’d even thought about it.

Cas gave him a nod and a small smile and straightened his bag on his shoulder. Dean called to him as he was opening the door.

“If you change your mind about a tattoo, I’ll get you a good deal.”

Cas snorted and with an “I’m sure I won’t,” left.

Dean’s small smile fell back into a look of concentration as he went back to his sketchbook until John returned with their dinner for the evening. Dean was halfway through his food when John stood up from his work table, heading Dean’s way to look at the sketches he’d scattered around for Jo’s tattoo.

“Hmm. Which one are you liking the best?” John asked as he glanced over them. Dean felt the part of him that was still 15 and constantly looking for his father’s approval bubble up to the surface.  He picked up the sheet of paper he had on the left of the board and held it up.

“I think I like this one the most right now,” he said. He shoved the fry in his free hand into his mouth and then used it to point to the design that took up the top right quarter of the page. He swallowed his food and went on. “Jo might think it’s a little bigger than she’d planned for, but I think it showcases some of the ideas we talked about really well‒ gets her Dad’s initials in there and I can make the shading look a little like wings of a bird.”

John’s mouth was pursed and Dean fought against chewing on his lip.

“You think you could get those details into something smaller?” He didn’t really let Dean answer before going on. “If you can’t, I might be able to. I could always do the tattoo if you need.”

“No, sir, I can probably do it. I’ve got a sketch with this basic idea smaller, but I wanted to talk to Jo before, see if she really wants those details in there. You know how she was when Charlie didn’t warn her before she punched that second hole for her industrial,” Dean smirked. “She doesn’t like surprises much.”

That got John’s expression to lose some of its seriousness.

“They do look good though,” he said with a nod.

“Thank you, sir,” Dean said as he crossed back to his bench.

“Make sure you’re not getting grease on that board, though, Dean.”

Dean hastily unrolled his flannel’s sleeve and used it to wipe down his light board‒ not that there was any grease on it‒ and the table his coke was sweating on. He knew that John wasn’t even paying attention, having gone back to his work and falling into that zone easily, but his father was right; he needed to keep his station as clean as possible so he wouldn’t have to spend extra time sanitizing at the end of the night. Whether or not he actually did tattoos in that space, it needed to be clean.

The two of them were relatively quiet as they worked, Dean moving on from Jo’s tattoo to working on a design he thought Sam might like to add to the portrait of blind justice he’d gotten on his shoulder blade two summers ago when he’d come home after he’d decided on pre-law as a major, and John moving on to the books. Neither of them noticed it was well past what was technically closing time by the time Dean started to crash, his back getting stiff and his hand cramping from drawing such intricate designs all night. He should have sketched something bigger to give himself a break.

As they cleaned, wiping everything down and making sure all the gloves and inks and papers were in their place for the night, John told Dean about the older woman client who he’d missed getting her nipples pierced while he was in class. Dean and John were both laughing by the end of the story with the added commentary and after locking up and walking to their cars, when Dean watched the taillights of John’s Sierra in front of him, he felt a wave of gladness wash over him. He liked being able to have this to share with his family, even if Sam was halfway across the country.


	2. Chapter 2

Jo was her usual self when she came into the shop the next day: snarky and cute and exactly like a little sister Dean never wanted and certainly never wanted to admit to having had sexual thoughts about at one point. Her nose was red from the cold and she had a hat pulled down over her ears but her blonde hair stood out against the black of her coat.

“You don’t want to wait for Charlie to get here?” Dean asked with a smirk when Jo started stripping off her coat and unbuttoning her plaid as well. She paused to flip him off and his smirk widened into a smile.

“I can’t help that Charlie has a crush on me,” Jo said as she folded up her over shirt. She sat down backwards in the tattoo chair Dean had set up already and hooked her chin over her hands. “Show me what you’ve got for me, Dean-o.”

Dean glared at the nickname, but pulled out the sketches he had for her and explained what he’d been trying to do with each one. Jo nodded along and gave her input when she had to. She went with the fully detailed one and didn’t even ask for it to be smaller.

“Let me get a stencil made up for you and we’ll get this going then.” He jerked his chin towards the front. “There’s new _Rolling Stone_  if you’re interested.”

Dean didn’t hear whether or not she got up for the magazine as he concentrated on making the stencil and he didn’t really have an idea of how long it took him. He knew it looked good when he finished it up.

“Alright, Jo, stand up and come tell me about placement, you know the drill.”

He handed her a hand mirror before they stepped over to the one on the wall and Jo slipped her straps down off her right shoulder. Dean took a moment to pull his gloves on. She told him to start out under her shoulder blade and had move it to above it and after some minor adjustments for angle, settled on that spot.

“You sure?” Dean asked. Jo rolled her eyes.

“This isn’t my first rodeo, Dean. I’m sure.”

When the stencil was in place, Jo settled back down into the chair and Dean started getting his equipment ready.

“How’s school going?” Jo asked. She craned her neck to look at Dean. He stuck his tongue out at her, wiggling the ring in it for added effect. He was so used to her teasing him about the fact that she’d already finished her degree that he barely noticed it anymore. “No, I’m serious,” she protested. “You’re almost done. What crappy gen-ed did you get stuck taking your last semester?”

Dean groaned and opened a fresh needle. “A poetry class.” Jo laughed, hard. “Hey, don’t laugh at the guy about the take a needle to your back. I could tattoo a chicken on you or something.”

Jo cocked an eyebrow. “You would never. Risk your rep like that? Also, a chicken?” She laughed again at his shrug.

“The poetry class is pretty awful. Teacher sucks, most of them are kids in there. There is one guy who seems pretty alright so far though. Sharing one of the books.”

“Oh, is he pretty alright looking, too?” Jo was definitely teasing him that time.

“I’m gonna start, alright? Like always, it’s gonna hurt.”

Jo let him ignore her question as he brought the machine to her back and she felt the familiar sting. She might not be as covered as Dean was, but she had plenty of tattoos she could show off when she was in the mood, though she was more of a piercing girl. Charlie’d been ecstatic when she’d wanted her nipples done. Dean remembered Charlie describing Jo’s breasts in details that he didn’t care about or want to hear at all. Dean got into a rhythm before Jo spoke again.

“Seriously, this guy you’re sharing the book with. Is he cute? Is that why you’re sharing?”

Dean made a noncommittal sound. “That’s not why I’m sharing a book with him. But he’s not hard on the eyes at all. Crazy blue eyes.”

“Tattoos at all?”

“No, he seems pretty straight edge.”

“Too bad.”

Dean didn’t comment and Jo didn’t start up another conversation for a while. Dean wouldn’t have answered her anyway since he was deep into a zone as he worked on the small lines of the outline details. Once he got to the shading he’d be a better conversationalist. He proved it by talking about the clientele in the Harvelle’s bar with Jo as she complained about them. Customer service sometime sucked, no matter what industry you were in.  The two of them had bonded over that the first time they’d met.

Dean was halfway done with the shading when John came in.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Hello, Mr. Winchester.”

John waved in hello and shrugged off his coat. He made a beeline for the two of them and looked at the work Dean was doing. His eyebrows rose a little and he nodded.

“Looks good, you two.”

Dean and Jo both murmured thanks and Dean continued his work. It didn’t take him that much longer to finish. He looked at it and no matter what it looked like to him, he sent out a silent wish that Jo would be happy with it, just like he did with every client.

Jo grimaced a little bit as she got up, body stiff from having sat in one position completely still for so long. She grabbed the hand mirror off the table where Dean had put it and walked to the mirror to take a look at her newest tattoo.

Her eyes went wide and her mouth opened a little. “Oh, Dean.” Her eyes welled up with tears.

Dean panicked.

“It’s perfect.” Jo looked away from the mirror to meet Dean’s eyes and she gave him a blinding smile. She brought her free hand up to her eyes to surreptitiously wipe her tears away and she looked back at the reflection of the tattoo. “It’s the perfect tribute to my dad. Thank you, Dean.”

Dean wasn’t sure he’d ever heard Jo so sincere and he was tightlipped when he nodded at her. He knew what she was going through; he’d had a similar reaction when he’d gotten small angel wings tattooed on his right wrist for his mother when he was 15.

“He’d like it, Jo,” John said. Neither Dean nor Jo had heard John get up, but he was looking at the tattoo in the mirror as well. He gave her a small smile and she returned it.

Jo couldn’t erase the raw emotion from her face as she and Dean finished up with payment. She kissed Dean on the cheek with a quick ‘thank you,’ waved to John, and then was gone out the door. This kiss put a smirk on John’s face and Dean blushed at the teasing. He rolled his eyes at his father and the two of them fell into easy patterns of work.

They didn’t have many customers come in‒ a dark skinned, accented woman who came in and bought a new eyebrow hoop that John changed for her, a mulleted man hoping to set up an appointment with someone about covering up a tattoo he’d gotten on a dare, two hard eyed teenage girls looking at plugs‒ but John and Dean both felt as though they’d accomplished something during the day.

Dean was just thinking about going out to get food for the two of them for lunch when John remembered something.

“Oh, Dean,” he said, making Dean look at him with raised eyebrows of acknowledgment. “There’s an expo in St. Louis the second weekend of March that I was looking at. You’ll be alright to stay here and man the shop?”

Dean nodded, “Of course, Dad.”

“Good man.”

***

What Dean dreaded came to pass the next class period. He’d gone into the class in a good mood though; he and Cas had spent 20 minutes in the library coffee shop discussing the reading assignment. It turned out that Dean wasn’t too far from wrong about some of the poems‒ they were crap that didn’t need to be formatted the way they were as far as Cas thought either‒ but Cas also could explain some things to him.

“Meyer’s work is a lot of confessional poetry, a lot of very personal stuff. The poem on page 13 is about a miscarriage and it seems fairly obvious that it’s actually about her after having met her. It might not be a fair assumption, but there’s precedent.”

“So is ‘confessional poetry’ not the only thing there is? I mean, most of the poems I know, which is maybe like 2, use ‘I’ so isn’t that confessional?” Dean had asked, sipping from his coffee. Cas’d waved a hand at him.

“Not necessarily. But no, it’s definitely not the only sort of poem. Even ‘I’ poems, even poems about oneself don’t have to necessarily be overwrought confessions. Granted, we all go through that phase.” He’d looked amused, an introspective wry smile on his face.

Dean’s eyes had lit a bit. “Not me. Never written a poem in my life.” Cas had raised a brow at him. “So what’d you write about when you were a moody teenager? I wanna know what I need to fake having done before.”

Cas’d laughed outright at that. “I’m afraid I won’t be much help there. My confessional poetry was all aggrandized praise of God. More like personalized hymns, really.”

Dean’d filed that information away for later, but hadn’t pried then. They’d left for class soon after.

Now, class was about ten minutes from done and Dean’d been paying only so much attention. He did hear it loud and clear when Meyer informed them that their assignment was to read another ten poems from her book and write one of their own. They were to be prepared to read it out loud and receive feedback from the class.

Dean swore quietly to himself and wondered if he could get away with saying that they hadn’t had enough time to know how to write a poem. It wouldn’t exactly be a lie, especially not for him, but he doubted that Meyer would see it that way. Instead, he'd sworn under his breath; only Cas heard him.

Dr. Meyer was the first person out of the door, again. Everyone else was packing up and Cas turned to Dean.

“I’ll take the book tonight and bring it to you when I’m done?”

“Yeah, sure.” Dean knew it came out distractedly, but he couldn’t care less about the reading at the time. He was more worried about this damn writing experience.

“And I can help you come up with something to write about if you want?” This offer was quieter than the last and Dean had known there was a reason he liked Cas‒ this confirmed it completely.

“You’re a lifesaver,” he said in relief. He slung his bag over his shoulder once it was packed and closed. “I get done with class early on Wednesdays so don’t feel like you have to rush to get the assignment done tonight to bring it to me.”

“Dean,” Cas began, a cocky and disbelieving look on his face, “the assignment is 10 poems. Unless they’re all 'The Four Quartets,' I think that I’ll be able to get it done tonight.”

Dean nodded as if he was sure of what the Four Quartets, but Cas didn’t seem to be able to tell the lie.            

“I’ll see you later then,” Dean told Cas with a nod. He had no idea why, but he suddenly needed out of the classroom and away from these people. As he passed through the door, he heard two other students talking about different styles of poems and he sped up. He wouldn’t know a sonnet from a haiku from a villanelle and he knew that he’d learned one of them before in school.

He was reminded that he was completely out of his depth and he had accepted the offer of help from a virtual stranger to brainstorm ideas for a poem. There was no way he was going to get that in touch with himself and show it to someone else. He would figure out the poem on his own, even if it sucked. Dean didn’t care one way or the other about the quality of a poem; all he wanted to do was pass the damn class and a D would let him graduate.

When he got in his car and turned on the radio, Bad Company was on, and between that and the assignment they got in his entrepreneurial business class- design a logo for a business and outline a business model‒ he felt more like himself. Now this was something he could do. He stayed focused on that class and the work for it until he reached the tattoo parlor, and then he was concentrating on work.

Namely, trying not to stare at the woman Charlie was just about finished piercing.

“You sure you just want the bellybutton?” Charlie was asking her. The woman looked maybe just a shade too old to be getting her bellybutton pierced, but she was still smoking hot. She liked what she saw too, judging by the way her eyes roamed down his body as he walked in.

“Well, I’d let him do my nipples if he wanted, but I’m good with just the bellybutton.”

Dean smirked. “I’d never take business from Charlie here, but if you’re thinking of inking…” he trailed off.

The woman stood up and kept her shirt lifted, turning so Dean could see that she had a tattoo on her lower back that read “Jesse Forever.”

“Who’s Jesse?”

“Well, he wasn’t forever.” She was smirking as she sat back down.  “Makes a girl a little gun shy about permanence. Might rethink it for you though.”

Dean snorted a laugh just as Charlie snapped her gloves off.

“Alright, Pamela, you are all done. Let’s just get your hardware paid for and I’ll give you a print off for cleaning instructions and send you on your way.”

Dean let the two women finish up their business, though he could feel Pamela’s eyes on him before she left. He heard the tinkle of the bell as she left and two seconds later, Charlie was cuffing him on the arm.

“You came in and stole my thunder! Major twat swattage, Dean.”

He laughed at her and playfully shoved her back. “Whatever, Red. Close the deal before I get here next time.”

Charlie sneered at him and started cleaning up her piercing station and Dean finally slung his bag off his shoulder and dropped into his chair. The two of them fell into an easy banter while they took care of business around the parlor‒ checking the schedule for appointments and to confirm their hours and restocking the supply closet and the jewelry cases and generally killing time in the most useful ways possible until someone wandered in to get work done. They’d done all they could around the shop and their conversation had tapered off. The silence that settled between them was companionable and comfortable and conducive for both of them to relax in.

Charlie was reading a manga and Dean was sketching nothing in particular as it came to him when the bell over the door tinkled. Charlie jumped up to help whoever it was before Dean even looked up.

“What can I help you with today? Wait, no, let me guess‒ plugs.”

“I’m sorry?”  As soon as he spoke, Dean recognized Cas and paused in his drawing to go rescue him from Charlie.

“For your ears. Stretching. Not the kind for sexy fun times or anything. Definitely for your ears. I wouldn’t‒”

“Charlie, shut up.”  Dean was shaking his head and having to hold back laughter from how embarrassed both of them looked as he got to the front of the shop. “Hey, Cas. Sorry about Charlie. She’s a professional hazard. Charlie, I hope to god you don’t do this to everyone else when I’m not here.”

The color on Cas’ cheeks was receding, but Charlie had even brighter red spots high on her cheeks.

“I could see he’s had his ear pierced. Looked like a closed stretched lobe. I’m so sorry.” Her voice was almost just a squeak. “I’ll just go, flush my head in the toilet or something.”

“That’s not really necessary,” Cas told her, puzzling at her. “Unless of course, you want to?”

Dean finally did laugh then. Charlie recovered from her embarrassment to glare at him.

“Charlie, Cas is in one of my classes. We’ve got an assignment to talk about. We’re gonna take over my dad’s office for a bit, okay? Try not to talk about sex toys with any other potential customers.”

Charlie gave a mock salute. "You got it, boss. I'll man the station."

Dean rolled his eyes and turned away to head to John's office. He jerked his head for Cas to follow him and he knew that Cas had nodded at Charlie before he trailed behind Dean. Dean waited until Cas passed him and then closed the door. John kept the blinds closed in his office, and Dean moved to remedy the darkness of it quickly.

"Sorry about Charlie."

"It's alright. I'm surprised she noticed my ear at all. I haven't had it pierced for quite some time now. I only ever had it pierced for maybe a week to begin with."

"Fit of rebellion?" Dean asked, a smile in his voice. Cas sighed in self-disgust.

"Yes. It was right when I was losing faith and wanted to drop out of seminary, but I felt too guilty for it. I'd even gotten a cross earring for the piercing, but it wasn't enough. I left two months later though." Dean was goggling at Cas and Cas noticed then. He blushed for a second time in ten minutes. "I'm sorry, you didn't ask for all of that information."

"Dude, you were in seminary?"

Cas nodded. He didn't elaborate though and it was information that Dean filed away in the back of his mind again. He cleared his throat instead of waiting for Cas to break the silence that had descended on them.

"Okay. Anyway, how was the assignment? Am I going to understand these poems better?"

Cas snorted out a laugh and it made a grin break across Dean's face.

"Not so much, no. In fact, I think they're worse. Honestly, if I were you, I'd skip them anyway."

"Really?" Dean asked cocking an eyebrow. He chose that moment to finally sit down; he had barely noticed he'd been standing at the window, letting lines of the winter sunshine they'd had that day stream in against his skin. Cas looked around with a puzzled look and Dean realized that maybe it was still too dark in the room for the other man; he was so used to John needed the tranquility of natural light when he struggled with the books that he didn't think. He pointed a finger behind the filing cabinet next to the door and Cas flipped the lights on.

"Yes, really," Cas said as he swung his bag onto the desk and sat down in the chair across from Dean. "All she's going to want to do Thursday is read our poems and tell us how she would do them, I'm almost sure."

Dean snorted at Cas' disdain. "And I thought you were gonna like the old bat."

"Yes, well, unfortunately I don't. And in fact, I have changed my mind about her as a poet as well. Any redeeming works she had in previous books have been lost to the whiny drivel that's in this one."

"Damn, man, say how you really feel." Dean was almost taken aback by Cas' words. So far the man had been fairly mild mannered.

Cas looked embarrassed again.

Dean just laughed and waved a hand. “I was starting to worry that me hating her was offending you. Bitch about her all you want, Cas. She’s awful.”

Cas’ embarrassment faded and he smiled a little. “She is, isn’t she?”

Dean just looked at Cas with a smile on his face and didn't seem to want to look away. Of course, he had to eventually.

"So," Dean began, "if I'm not supposed to read the poems, do I really have to write one?"

"I'm afraid so," Cas nodded. "I'm sure that everyone is just as upset about it as you are."

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "Really? I thought you liked poetry? I thought most of those kids in there were probably looking forward to writing." Confusion was evident in his voice.

Cas was shaking his head and he had a mischievous glint in his eyes. "No, you misunderstand. I mean that everyone is probably as upset about you having to write a poem."

Dean looked stricken and hurt and Cas realized he'd gone too far. Dean'd seemed to crumple into himself.

"That was only a joke, Dean," Cas protested. "Honestly, it was a joke. I apologize. I'm sure your poem will be fine." Dean looked skeptical at Cas and pursed his lips.

Cas sighed and ran a hand over his face. He looked so upset with himself.

"Perhaps we should imbibe copious amounts of alcohol at this point.  Then perhaps I wouldn't be putting my foot in my mouth so deeply."

Dean tried to give Cas a smile and forgive him for it- he knew the man was simply joking in the dry way of his that had been displayed already in their interactions, but Dean, for all his toughness, knew his strengths and hated having to expose something that wasn't one. Instead of saying anything, he fiddled with the lock on John's bottom left drawer and it rolled open. Dean wrapped his hand around the neck of whatever bottle John had in there and he pulled it out. Johnnie Walker Red, good enough for Dean.

"If you were serious about that copious amounts of alcohol, be my guest. I can buy my dad a new bottle."

Cas looked completely shocked and Dean laughed outright. He spun the top off the bottle and took a swig on his own. Somehow that seemed to surprise Cas even more. Dean shrugged.

"One little swig isn't gonna hurt. Plus, I'm gonna need something to get through writing a poem." Dean paused and tried to will Cas into relaxing again. Neither of them seemed to be on solid ground at the moment, and yet, Dean still felt more comfortable than he would have with any other stranger seeing him in such a light. Maybe he and Cas weren't exactly strangers anymore, though it'd been a quick transition.

Cas tentatively stuck out a hand and took the bottle. Dean hadn't closed it back up and he lifted it to his lips and he gulped. Dean's eyes went wide when he saw how much alcohol Cas downed. It wasn't exactly enough that he'd have to buy John a new bottle, but it was enough that he'd have to explain how it happened.

"Damn," Dean said, almost impressed. Cas slid the bottle back across the desk and Dean screwed the top back on. Cas looked expectant then.  "Okay, so how do I even get started on writing this poem if I really have to?"

Cas nodded and pulled two notebooks and pens out of his bag. He tossed one to Dean and he opened one for himself.

"Well, first I would say that you might think about just doing some freewriting. Or if that sounds miserable for you, we can brainstorm through word association and the like. That's how I've always tried to combat writer's block."

Dean realized how much more Cas knew about this stuff than he did- he actually wrote so often he got writers block- and he thought that he might have a panic attack right there. But before he could, he realized Cas was speaking again.

"But, those are just things that work for me. What do you do when you need inspiration for a drawing?"

Dean blanched. Drawing was just something he did; he either had a detailed idea from a client or he drew whatever was in his head. He rarely felt blocked for inspiration. He’d seen too much not to have some image in his head nearly all the time.  If he ever did need inspiration, he just opened his eyes and looked.

He shrugged at Cas. “I just look around, man. Hard not to come up with something to draw if I need it then.”

Cas cocked his head and squinted in what was becoming a familiar expression to Dean already.

“I mean, I’m a tattoo artist, Cas. I’m not painting the Mona Lisa and I ain’t nothing that special.”

“I don’t believe that that’s true at all,” Cas said, as though it were an absolute fact and not a belief. Before Dean could get a protest in, he went on. “But I digress. If what you do to draw is just look around, then look around for what to write about.”

Dean looked at Cas, skepticism writ large on his expression, until Cas had to laugh.

“It’s the same principal, Dean.”

Dean shook his head, his face still scrunched in disbelief. “It’s totally different, man. Poetry’s all about feelings and shit and looking around all I’m going to see is whiskey and your freakishly blue eyes and that dollar my dad’s still got on the wall.”

“You think my eyes are freakish?” Cas’ pout was put on, but Dean couldn’t help but backtrack.

“You know what I meant. They’re really blue. Like, I’ve mixed ink that color in the shop. Did my little brother’s last piece with some of it. It’s a good blue. I mean,” Dean stuttered and blushed. Cas refrained from teasing him and Dean was very grateful for it. “But I can’t write a poem about any of that. I’m certainly not going to write a poem about the color of your eyes, man. That’s just a little too homoerotic for me to do as a first poem.”

Cas seemed to stiffen for a moment.

“Maybe a like third or fourth poem can be about the equal opportunity sex god Dean Winchester, but not now,” Dean said with a lascivious wink.

“Oh,” Cas replied, sarcasm thick, “I’m sure it’d be a very long poem.”

Dean faked being offended and Cas rolled his eyes.  Dean wondered how else he could stall having to write this stupid poem. Cas seemed to be mulling something over and Dean took it as an opportunity.

“Spit it out.”

He opened his mouth, and then reconsidered it quickly. He brought a hand to his mouth and bit at his thumb nail and Dean waited, not impatiently. Finally, Cas forged ahead with his thought.

“I just, I don’t want there to be confusion between the two of us. Or rather, any discomfort. I mean, I’d like to think that we might be becoming friends and I like that idea‒”

“Cas, yeah, we’re friends. What is it?”

“I’m gay.” Dean could tell Cas meant for it to come out steady and unafraid, but there must have been a residue of shame somewhere in him that leaked into the words. Cas kept on before Dean could say anything, “I hope it‒”

“Dude, chill. I don’t care at all. Charlie’s a lesbian for one thing, so I’m definitely pro-gay rights and all.” Cas seemed to sigh quietly in relief at that. Dean shrugged, going for nonchalant and missing by a mile as he continued, “Plus, I like everybody. I wasn’t kidding about being an equal opportunity kind of guy. Sam says I’m ‘pansexual’ but I think that sounds stupid so I just say I like everybody.”

“Oh,” Cas said dumbly. “Alright.”

Dean nodded, not sure where to go from there. Cas seemed vaguely uncomfortable and Dean wasn’t sure he had the balls to ask why. But he was even less sure that he had the balls to write a poem, so he did ask.

“Is that a problem?”

That snapped Cas out of whatever was going on in his head. “What? No. Not at all. I’m sorry, I was just thinking about… life, I guess. And irony and coincidence and a lot of other things that probably mean nothing, really.” He shook his head as though to clear it and picked up his pen. “Now, why don’t we quit stalling and see what happens when you free-write some thoughts down, hmm?”

Dean grimaced but picked up his pen at Cas’ implicit instruction and scooted the notebook closer to himself. He had a miserable expression on his face that he could tell Cas was trying not to laugh about.

“Just take 5 minutes and write about whatever comes to mind. I’ll do it too. We’ll keep the pens on the page until the timer goes off,” Cas said encouragingly before starting a timer on his watch. He looked up at Dean again. “Ready?”

“No,” Dean told him petulantly.

Cas ignored him completely and hit the start button, immediately setting to writing in his own notebook.  Dean looked down at his blank page, set the tip of his pen against it, and his mind went blank.

_Fuck this_ were the only two words he could think of and he scribbled them down a dozen times before they turned into something else, namely, a list of other things that could fuck off: poetry in general, Dr. Meyer, that asshole who hadn’t tipped him for the tattoo over the weekend, this fucking snow that wouldn’t seem to go away, the fact that he hadn’t gotten laid in weeks, that Stanford had to be halfway across the county. He was still going on when Cas’ watch beeped.

Cas looked up expectantly and smiled when he saw that Dean’d filled up half a page. Dean saw the smile and shook his head.

“Don’t get too excited, it’s just a list of things I don’t like. Actually, it’s a list of things that can fuck off, starting with poetry.”

Cas smirked in amusement, trying to keep it from turning into a full-fledged smile.

“That’s still a start,” he said with a shrug. “What else besides poetry?”

Dean scanned through the list, looking for something that could maybe make an acceptable poem, for something that might be emotional. “How far away my brother is.”

“Where is he?” Cas asked, genuinely curious.

“Stanford,” Dean said. “He’s smart as hell. He got a full ride out there, which is why I could even go to school.”

“You sound proud.”

Dean smiled, his eyes shining. “Oh, I am. He’s a pain in the ass sometimes, and a huge nerd, but sometimes growing up moving around all the time, me and him were each other’s only friend, you know?”

Cas shook his head a little. “I don’t really. I grew up with four brothers and three sisters, one of whom is my twin, and I only talk to two of them anymore. But I can imagine, I suppose.”

Dean’d let out a whistle when Cas mentioned how many siblings he’d had. He tried not to think of how awful it’d be not to talk to Sam; it’d been bad enough when he’d had to do it in secret.

“You could very easily write about your brother, Dean.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Dean lied. He made a show of circling that idea in his notebook, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to write about Sammy. Nothing he could say would do his kid brother justice, and there was no way he was going to share that with a classroom full of people he didn’t really know. He certainly wasn’t going to let Dr. Meyer hear him talk about him. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Good. Of course, you don’t have to write about that. Or anything you already wrote down. It’s just that you need to remember poetry can be about anything.”

“That’s great and all,” Dean nodded, "but how do I actually write a poem?”

Cas laughed and he pulled the other book they had for their class out of his backpack. “Yes, that’s the tricky part. Let’s talk about some different forms, since Meyer seems to have forgotten all about the teaching aspect of teaching.”

It was easy for Dean to listen to Cas talk about sonnets and stanzas and rhyme schemes; he tried to explain the basics in the easiest ways possible, but was never condescending. Dean wouldn’t go so far as to say he made poetry enjoyable, but he felt like he was understanding the information. He stopped Cas in his explanation of what _terza rima_ was to tell him there was no way he was getting that fancy, and to check that Charlie didn’t need him out in the shop. He hadn’t heard the door, but he needed to make sure.

“You good out here, Red?” Dean called.

“I’m bored stiff, but yeah. Can I come see what you’re working on?”

“Hell no,” Dean said and let the door slam. He laughed at Cas’ shocked face and even harder at Charlie’s muffled “meanie!”

Cas opened his mouth to start up again and Dean shook his head.

“I think I’m good with this first assignment, Cas. I’m not trying to get too complicated.”

Cas blushed a little. “I’m sorry, I was a little too thorough, I’m sure.” Dean nodded a little. “I can let you get back to your work, Dean. I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time.”

Dean waved a hand at him and tore the page of notebook paper he’d used out. He folded it up and stuck it in his shirt pocket before handing the notebook and pen back to Cas. Cas began to gather up his things.

“You know you don’t have to go, right? It’s a slow night; you can stay and hang out with me and Charlie. You know I’m not writing this poem until the last minute, no matter how many pointers you gave me.”

Cas laughed a little despite himself and continued to pack his bag.

“Alright, I’ll stay a little while longer.”

Dean was happy to hear it.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean almost skipped class on Thursday; he'd stalled in the coffee shop in the library right up until the very last minute he could without being late to the classroom. Some sense of guilt toward Cas when he'd done nothing but try to help him compelled him to trudge to what would probably be his humiliation if he had to read. Because he'd gotten his poem done, just like he'd told Cas he would, but it was bad and he knew it and he had no desire to read it in front of the class that day or ever, if he was being honest with himself.  The notebook containing the poem seemed to burn through his bag onto his leg just with its existence.

Dean got into class and Cas gave him an encouraging smile. He knew the expression he gave back was more of a grimace, no matter how much he wished it weren't.

No one else looked quite as unenthusiastic as Dean, though Alfie looked a little green around the gills if you paid close enough attention; Dean, of course, did not, as he was too busy trying to avoid eye contact with Meyer as she swept into the room with a flurry of tinkling and suede.

"Hello, class," she sing-songed. She received a few clear 'good afternoons' but mostly she got mumbling back. "Now, I know I assigned you some reading on Tuesday, and we should talk about those poems, especially so I can explain my creative process with all of them to you, but that sounds like so much less fun than hearing what you lot have been writing!"

Dean closed his eyes and tried not to groan; Cas had been right- they were going to get right into the hell of it.

"Dr. Meyer," Cas spoke up. She looked up at him with a false brightness.

"Yes, Cassiel? It is Cassiel, yes? Can I call you Cassie?"

"It's Castiel, ma'am, and I'd actually prefer that you didn't," Cas corrected her politely. She still looked miffed and Dean felt a flash of annoyance go through him. Cas ignored that and went on, "I was wondering if I might volunteer to go first with our reading."

Dr. Meyer waved a bejeweled hand. "Oh, no, dear, I prefer to pick the order for readings. You don't get to choose your own spot when you're booked for a performance and I want my writers to get used to that."

Dean began to panic and he was trying desperately not to show it. He barely felt Cas press his leg against his, trying to calm him down. Cas nodded at Meyer with a tight lipped smile, but she was too busy looking at her roster sheet to see it. Cas still didn't let it fall from his face into an expression of absolute disdain like Dean could tell he wanted to.

"Miss...Bell, why don't you go ahead and start for us?"

Dean breathed a very audible sigh of relief when he heard whose name she called. Dr. Meyer turned an eye on him. "Mr. Tattoos, you can go after Miss Bell." She said it with a smile on her face and Dean had to repress the urge to vomit. Cas still had their knees pressed together though and somehow it stopped him from just running out of the classroom.

"You let someone stick a needle through your tongue, Dean," Cas said out of the side of his mouth quietly. "How bad can reading one little poem be after that?"

"I'd let someone stick a needle through my dick if it meant I didn't have to do this," Dean hissed back as Tracy Bell pulled her notebook out of her bag. Cas snorted a laugh and finally moved his leg a fraction so the two of them were no longer touching.

Tracy cleared her throat when she'd finally gotten her poem from her bag and she began to read. Cas turned his rapt attention to her and had a polite and interested look on his face, as did the rest of the class.

Dean, however, did not. His face was complete and utter panic and he heard absolutely nothing of what Tracy was reading. He could hear the cadence of her voice and he could see her lips moving, but he understood nothing, too far into his own worries about the poem to even pretend to pay attention. His hands drummed nervously against his thighs under the table and he sent out a prayer to whoever might be listening that Tracy had written the longest poem ever to exist in a creative writing class; unfortunately, he was not so lucky. Despite the fact that she did have to flip a page in her notebook, it seemed like she was done before Dean knew it.

A few people started to clap, but Dr. Meyer cut them off.

"Oh, no," she said with a shake of her head. "In poetry, you snap." She demonstrated with an exaggerated bout of finger-snapping. Cas glanced over at Dean and rolled his eyes a little, but Dean couldn't even laugh about it back.

"Now," Dr. Meyer continued, "what do we think of the poem?"

Dean was more nervous about the answer than even Tracy was, if the look on her face was anything to go by. If they ripped her poem, they surely would laugh him out of the room and he couldn't afford that even if he didn't want to be good because poetry didn't matter and he was going to be a tattoo artist for the rest of his life, but people had to have some respect for him and he was so close to being done and he didn't want to do this at all and he-

There was a piece of paper in front of him.

‘CALM DOWN’ was scrawled across it. ‘you're thinking too loud :) :)’ Dean could recognize Cas' handwriting from the few notes he'd taken in the book during the first assignment. Dean had a passing fantasy of crinkling the emoticon laden paper up and hurling it against Cas' face, with it's stupid polite and interested smile, but he held himself in check and tried to breathe a little more deeply.

"I liked the image of the deer in the headlights," one of the students was telling Tracy, who smiled back at him.

"Cliche stuff," Dr. Meyer interrupted. "What else could you do with a deer image maybe?" Tracy furrowed her brow a little and the boy who'd spoken up- Adam, as far as Dean knew- looked a little offended.

No one answer Dr. Meyer's question about the deer image until she answered it herself. "What about a deer in a hunting snare? Or pierced by an arrow?"

"That's not-"

Tracy tried to answer, but stopped as Dr. Meyer shook her head.

"Wait until the full critique is done to speak, writers." Her tone was as condescending as Dean'd ever heard and he disliked her more in that moment than he ever had before. Tracy snapped her mouth shut and looked annoyed as well.

Dr. Meyer looked around the room expectantly, but no one seemed to have more to say. "Anyone else?" she still asked. There were a few head shakes and Dean could tell that Cas wanted to say something, but he didn't.

"Alright. Well, I think it was a very good place to start us off and a fine first draft, Miss Bell. Definitely some things to work with in there."

Tracy gave a tight smile and Dr. Meyer turned her gaze to Dean. He gulped, audibly. 

“I believe it is your turn, Mr. Tattoos,” she said with a smile. Dean couldn’t tell if it was meant to be cruel or not.

He nodded and reached into his bag to get out the poem he’d written in sheer agony the night before after he’d got done at work; it was awful, and he knew it, but suddenly when he had it in front of him on the table and he looked back up at Dr. Meyer’s smug face that said she knew it’d be awful too, he didn’t care anymore. Fuck her, and fuck this class, he would write shitty poetry all semester and pass with a D and leave; fuck it.

“By the way, Mr. Tattoos is my father; it’s just Dean, Doc,” he said, winking. He heard Cas try to cover up a snort of laughter next to him. The confidence he’d had in his voice as he corrected Dr. Meyer vanished as he realized he really did have to read.

“I’m not a poet,  
And, boy, don’t I know it,  
So I really hope that I don’t effing blow it.  
I don’t know how else to say  
That there is no way  
That this shouldn’t get thrown into a bay.  
I just want to pass this class  
And not fall on my ass  
Sorry for saying the word ass  
I’ve run out of rhymes  
sorry for wasting your times  
I hope that this is enough lines”

Dean could feel his cheeks burning and he didn’t really want to look up at anyone, but he forced himself to. His hands were still, but his legs bounced under the table, and he looked at Cas before he made himself acknowledge the rest of the room. No one was glaring at him, no one looked annoyed, and he was finally able to let out a breath.

“Very interesting, Dean. What do we think, class?”

To Dean’s surprise, Cas was not the first one to speak up. A blonde girl who’d introduced herself as a freshman named Kate during their first class started.

“I thought it was funny.” Dean couldn’t help but smile at her gratefully.

“Yeah, but the irony of a poem about not liking poetry’s a little old, isn’t it?” another one of the underclassmen girls said. “No offense,” she added.

“But that’s not the real irony,” Cas brought up. Dean turned to him, wondering where he was going. “The irony is that it’s a poem about being bad at poetry, but it’s not actually bad.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up, and a few other students tried to hide quizzical looks as well. Dean almost spoke up, but Cas looked at him.

“I’m not saying it’s great, no offense, Dean, but honestly your rhythm wasn’t too far off. We maybe shouldn’t scan it for meter, but there was something to it.”

Dean smiled back at Cas and mouthed ‘thank you’ before Dr. Meyer joined in.

“It had the rhythm of a limerick, though, Mr. Milton. Yet, more lines than a limerick and not the exact rhyme scheme and rhythm. But enough that it should be parsed down to that form. If we’re going to play with forms, we must first prove we know the original form.”

Dean could tell that Cas wanted to argue with her, but she didn’t let him.

“But thank you, Dean. Hopefully we’ll see an improvement.”

Dean gave her a nod with his mouth pursed together. It could have been worse. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Cas was more upset than Dean was about the comment.

Dr. Meyer had already moved on to picking the next person to read, and Alfie, her victim, was preparing himself. Dean spent the rest of the class listening to the rest of the poems and wondering whether or not he was missing something as the critiques went on in much the same vein they had been. About a third of the class was able to read before the alarm on Meyer’s phone went off.

“Thank you everyone for your readings today. The rest of you will read when we return on Tuesday. Please read the next ten poems in the ‘ _Visions of Bali’_ book.”

She was the first person out of the room this time.

Cas was seething next to Dean as soon as she was gone. “How dare her comments to your poem be such barbed digs about your experience! This is an introduction to creative writing level course!”

“Dude, chill, it’s fine,” Dean shrugged.

“No it’s not!” Cas insisted. “She’s a teacher! And calling you Mr. Tattoos! I cannot‒”

“Cas,” Dean said, putting his hands on his friend’s shoulders so he wouldn’t flail his hands around any longer, “I don’t care what some old bat thinks about me, and you don’t have to for me, okay? I appreciate it, but I am already over it.”

Cas was breathing angrily through his nose, but he nodded. “Fine. But I still cannot stand the woman. And your poem wasn’t that bad.”

Dean laughed and clapped one of his hands against Cas’ shoulder before dropping them. “The poem sucked, man; it’s okay to tell me so.”

Cas brushed the comment off and closed his eyes for a moment, hoping to calm down. Dean watched as Cas’ breathing evened out and his expression fell back to neutral and then he opened his eyes.

“I just don’t like it when the people who are supposed to be guiding us are of no help. It doesn’t seem quite fair. I apologize for my outburst.”

Sometimes, Dean felt as though he couldn’t get a read on his friend at all; one moment he was open and droll and happy and the next, he was formal and apologetic and subdued. There was always something right behind Cas’ eyes that could come out at seemingly any time. There were secrets in his life and Dean couldn’t help but wonder about them.

He knew that he had secrets, of course he did, but many of them he wore on his sleeve and could be discovered with the right reading. The angel wings on his wrist for his mother, a pair of squared off initials on his other wrist for his brother, the rayed pentagram John had chosen as the logo for his shop on his right shoulder, the Impala’s first license plate number on his forearm, the Led Zeppelin symbols on his other‒ all of them and all the rest had meaning that Dean could explain in minute detail if asked. If anyone ever did, they would know his whole life story, just about. From his love for Vonnegut and poker to his inability to say no to a bet, even if he might lose and have to have a teddy bear proclaiming that he ‘wuved’ hugs on his ass, it was all there.

“It’s okay. Man, I could use a beer. Or seven. Wanna blow off whatever else your plans were and get one with me?”

Cas seemed to be considering for a moment and then he shrugged, almost to himself, and nodded. “Not seven though.”

Dean couldn’t help but laugh and sling an arm around Cas’ shoulders, ruffling his hair up from where it’d been put together. “Can’t promise you anything.”

***

The bar was practically empty at this time of the day and Dean’s response to that was to mosey up to and then shove all the loose change he had in his pocket into the juke box and take up as much of the queue as he could as soon as he’d pointed Cas to a booth.

“Dean, are you sure this is the place we should be? No one seems to be here.”

Dean shook his head as he slid into the bench seat.

“Don’t worry; I know the owner and I know exactly who should be working right now and she’ll be out. In about three seconds if I know her.”

Sure enough, Cas watched a petite and pretty blonde girl walk through the swinging doors that separated the kitchen from the dining area and the smile she’d been wearing turned into a glare when she recognized Dean.

“Dean, you know my show is on Thursdays right now, you couldn’t have waited three minutes until I knew whether or not Ricardo offed himself?” She hadn’t even noticed that Dean wasn’t alone yet and when she did, she spun away from Dean and she tried to force on a smile. “I’m sorry about that. Welcome to Harvelle’s, my name’s‒”

“Jo, relax, you don’t have to do the whole bit. Jo, this is Cas,” Dean said with a wave of his hand, “Cas, Jo.”

Jo simply jerked her chin in acknowledgment and turned to Dean. “You want draught or bottles? Or are you starting on the hard stuff early today?” She didn’t let him answer before she looked back at Cas. “Don’t let him get you into any trouble, either way, alright?”

Dean threw a hand over his heart overdramatically. It was clear Jo was fighting a smile when he said “You wound me, Harvelle. Wound me.” He let her roll her eyes before he cracked a grin and dropped the act. “Bottles are fine. Ink healing well? Still loving it?”

“Yes,” Jo said, her face softening completely. “It’s still perfect, look.”

She turned around so Cas and Dean could both see the tattoo on her shoulder; there were spots that were scabbing over still, but it did look good. Cas was impressed at the intricacies of the looping details that held hidden tidbits around the stylized knife. It was a lovely piece of work and he said so. Jo gave him a smile when he did.

“You’re sweet,” she told him. “I’ll go get you your beer and leave you two be.”

Dean still had a smile on his face a little. He was spread out on the bench, one arm thrown onto the back of the seat and one leg cocked out to the side. It was obvious he felt comfortable here. He gave Jo a blinding grin when she came back with their beers and she looked a little star-struck; Cas thought he might too, though.

“Her tattoo is beautiful,” Cas told Dean when Jo had walked back into the kitchen, presumably to see if she could catch the end of her show. “You do good work, Dean.”

“As long as she likes it, then I’m happy,” he said, squirming a little in his seat. “But I’m better at it than I am at writing poems, that’s for sure.” Dean held a hand up when Cas opened his mouth. “No, don’t tell me the poem wasn’t that bad, I don’t care about it. Tell me what your poem is about.”

Cas shook his head and took a pull from his beer bottle. Dean followed suit, and Cas was fascinated by the way his fingers looked curled over the brown glass and how his lips were shiny with liquid when he put the bottle down. Dean was very beautiful, objectively anyone could see that, and Cas felt the desire to write a poem about him zip through him. Thankfully, he already had his poem for this assignment done otherwise he might have followed up on that inappropriate urge. 

“Fine, then tell me about something else. You heard me recite shitty poetry so tell me something about you. Feel like I’m getting the raw end of this friendship if I don’t have something embarrassing or personal on you.”

Cas tilted his head and wracked his brain. There was nothing so petty as the poem in his vault of secrets, Cas thought, but then again, the poem wasn’t petty to Dean at all.  He still couldn’t think of anything. Dean’d nearly finished his beer by the time Cas answered him.

“I don’t know what I could tell you? There’s very little embarrassing in my life, truly. Except perhaps the one time in elementary school when I got sick onto my school uniform and my mother had to come get me. But I was six years old.”

Dean snorted. ‘Yeah, that definitely doesn’t count.”

He drank down the last of his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He held a hand up to stop Cas from speaking, again, and got up and went behind the counter. He popped the tops off two more bottles of beer and headed back to the booth. He slid one to Cas, even though he didn’t need a new one yet.

“Then… Tell me something personal. Tell me about seminary. What made you drop out? Why go from almost a priest to making friends with a tattoo artist who’s in a major class of yours fucking it up totally?”

“As I said before,” Cas began, a formality in his voice that Dean had been hoping would lighten up with beer in his system. “I began to lose my faith.”

Dean tried to keep his face polite, but he failed. A brief look of offense flashed across Cas’ face and then he laughed.

“I know that’s an obvious answer, Dean. I’m getting to the rest of it.”

Dean waited, a none too patient expression on his face, and Cas took a long draught of his first beer. With one last quick swig, it was done and he spoke.

“My family always expected me to go into seminary. My father was a pastor, as is my oldest brother, but I was going to take an even more austere path and become a priest. I wouldn’t have to carry on the family line, because Michael was already having children and everyone expected Lucius and Gabriel to as well, and so there was no reason for me not to become a man of the cloth. I never saw one either.”

“What about your other brother?” Dean asked suddenly. Cas furrowed his brow at the interruption.

“Raphael is adopted so in some ways, my parents didn’t care if he was going to procreate.” He paused and let Dean’s surprise fade from his face. “You have to understand that my family is very religious, and very old. My parents believe we can trace our lineage back to John Milton, though I’m not sure that’s the truth. Blood is blood, and it matters to them. Serving God matters to them.”

“Obviously,” Dean said into his beer. Cas smirked.

“Anyway,” he started again, “I started to lose my faith in what should have been my second to last year at seminary. I didn’t realize what it was at the time, but I was half in love with one of my professors, though I just took it as affection and respect.”

“Look at you, hot for teacher.”

“Hot for preacher, even,” Cas joked. Dean snorted and rolled his eyes at the corniness, but he was smiling.

“So you had your first gay crush and lost hope?” Dean sounded incredulous and on the verge of making fun of Cas; he had a teasing glint in his eye.

Cas stared at him in annoyance. “No,” he said, “I slept with my first gay crush, a man of the cloth, after my parents tried to institutionalize my sister, Anna, for falling in love with a woman. She attempted suicide, thankfully failing, and was disowned. Then I realized my faith was fully gone.” Cas hadn’t realized how bitter he sounded, and how loudly he’d said all that. He was glad it was only the two of them in the bar.

Dean blinked in shock and finally let out a low whistle. Cas drank from his beer, two spots of color on his cheeks.

“Jesus, that’s heavy. I just wrote a shitty poem. I didn’t mean‒”

“No, Dean, I’m sorry. You didn’t know the story. I shouldn’t have‒”

“I mean, I’m really sorry about your apeshit family‒”

The two of them were both so embarrassed that they couldn’t stop trying to talk over each other to apologize. They stopped at the same time and Dean sighed.

“Let me go first?” Cas nodded at the request. “I’m sorry I made you tell me that, man. I shouldn’t have pushed. I had no idea.”

Cas shook his head. “You couldn’t have known. You don’t need to apologize. I rarely get to talk about it and I suppose that it’s nice to have someone listen to it.”

The two fell into an awkward, still embarrassed, silence for a moment. Both of them finished their second beers and Dean got up from the booth again. This time, he brought back a bottle of whiskey and two shot glasses along with more beer. He poured them both shots and he downed his quickly. Cas followed suit, and Dean poured them another. This time, he held the glass up.

“To getting over fucked up pasts.”

 Cas smirked, dryly, and Dean mirrored the expression before he shot the whiskey back.

“So,” Dean said, screwing the cap back onto the whiskey, “you’ve slept with a teacher. A religious teacher.”

Cas laughed and nodded, knowing exactly what was coming next. “Yes, and, since you’re going to ask, it was good. Sleeping with Father Cain was phenomenal, actually.” 

The details‒ how Cain had cradled the back of his head and praised him as Cas sucked him off, how he’d bent Cas over a pew and fucked his hole with his thick fingers and called Cas a slut while he did, how Cas had wanted nothing more than for Cain to ravish him, brutally and constantly‒ he would keep to himself even as they flashed through his mind.

Dean’s eyes flashed and Cas shook his head again. The embarrassment from earlier already seemed forgotten.

“No matter how much whiskey you give me, I will not tell you about it.”

Dean grinned and Cas couldn’t help but return the look. It was easy to slip into a conversation that was less painful and more full of laughter and teasing. It remained so until Dean finally noticed the time that they’d spent together and apologized for needing to go.

“Group project in a class. These guys seem to think we need to meet in the library rather than a bar, but I’m not sure why.”

“Yes, who would ever think that,” Cas drawled back, sarcasm thick. He waved a hand to motion to all the bottles on the table. 

Dean flipped him off half-heartedly and shrugged on his coat. He threw some money down, enough to cover both of their drinks and leave a hefty tip for Jo, and turned to leave with a smile. He thought better of it and turned back to Cas. “Thanks, Cas. For class today, I mean.”

Cas tried not to notice that Dean seemed embarrassed about it and waved him off with a “no problem,” but he tried even harder not to notice how something thumped in his chest at the way Dean smiled at him.

He failed, and the image stayed in his head during his entire way home.


	4. Chapter 4

The only time Dean got to see Cas in the next week was in class, where Cas had articulate, smart, kind things to say about nearly every poem that their classmates had written and read so far, while Dean could barely form an opinion even when asked. Only another third of the class got to read because of the way critiques were going, and Cas wasn’t part of that group. Neither of them were pretending that they were doing the readings being assigned, so they had no excuse to see each other outside of class. Dean wished he could find one, but he was swamped with work in other classes, and the influx of people coming into the shop looking for couple’s tattoo ideas and wanting to make appointments before Valentine’s Day though it was only three days away. Dean had to keep from rolling his eyes at every single patron who came through the door looking for a “permanent way to express their love” for someone whose name they had to check the exact spelling of. He would get paid no matter how dumb of a tattoo he was inking, though, so he could keep himself in check. He did bitch about it to John once the influx of lovebirds seemed to be done for the weekend though, and it made him feel much better when his father agreed and laughed with him.

On Tuesday, Dean realized he was actually looking forward to poetry class, since he had realized he missed Cas a little bit; it was nice to have a friend outside of work and he honestly couldn’t really remember the last time that had happened for him. He had a smile for him when he came in, but Dr. Meyer started addressing the class early, so Dean couldn’t ask about his weekend like he wanted to. Instead, he started writing a note as the first person began to read the poem.

“Fine,” Cas’ reply read, “I had a few volunteer hours at the soup kitchen on Broadway. Watched my first Terminator movie.”

Dean started to write back in shock, but Cas was speaking up about Krissy’s poem, giving her an idea about a varied rhyme scheme that sounded far too complex for Dean to even listen to. Dean let the conversation wash over him and hoped Meyer wouldn’t ask for any ideas from him. He was paying so little attention to what was going on that he didn’t realize the next reader had been chosen.   

It was Cas’ turn to read and Dean couldn’t tell if he was dreading it or looking forward to it. He would either find out that the guy he’d been relying on for weeks now to know his stuff would be ripped away from him because his poetry would be terrible too, or Dean would have to be even more embarrassed about what he didn’t know because it was good.

Cas cleared his throat before he started, and the cadence of his voice changed into something smooth as he read:

 “‘I have roses for a rib cage’  
He told me  
‘the thorns don’t hurt me though’  
I wanted to ask how they were watered  
Where the cracks in his chest that let the light shine through like a million stars could be found on his skin  
'what color are they?' I asked instead  
And the curve of his brow as it furrowed wounded me as nothing ever has and those thorns he never felt tore me into pieces when he said  
‘I don’t know,’  
and burrowed his fingertips into his chest  
and brought forth mounds of dirt  
‘Tell me’”

When he finished, Cas looked up calmly with the same small smile he wore throughout most of the class periods on his face. The polite finger snappings that always occurred seemed loud to Dean’s ears, and Dr. Meyer’s voice was grating.

“So, what do we think?”

“That was awesome,” came out of Dean’s mouth before he even knew what he had been thinking. He’d kept his mouth shut for almost every other critique unless it had been dragged out of him, but the praise was easy to give. “I mean, I clearly don’t know a whole lot about this stuff, which you all know,” he joked, hoping to downplay the veracity of his response. “But I kinda felt like I got that. Not because it was simple, I mean, it wasn’t really complicated, but it worked. I mean, it did for me. I dunno though,” he finished.

Cas had tried to keep a neutral expression, but his smile did flash a little wider briefly when he caught Dean’s eye. Dean hoped he wasn’t blushing.

“No, that makes sense,” one of the freshman boys who’d read last week‒ Tommy, Dean remembered‒ agreed. “It works because it was simple. Not emotionally, not really, but the language was. It was short and to the point, but still poetic. I liked it too. I think it could maybe be a little longer, but that’s just my opinion.”

“Yes, I agree. It could have been a little longer,” Dr. Meyer jumped in. Dean tried to keep his eyes from rolling and he sat back in his chair and zoned out as Dr. Meyer went on. It was maybe only the third day of class that involved people reading their work out loud, but most of them already knew that once she started in on her critique, it meant the end of anyone else speaking about the piece. Dean saw Cas’ eyes go flat as Dr. Meyer talked, even though he kept the same polite smile on his face. It took a lot of willpower not to snort at the sight.

“And I think that’s about all the time we have for critique on that piece, so anything you’d like to say, Castiel?” she finally asked, completely clueless to the fact that no one had been listening to the specifics of what she had been saying.

“Thank you. And although my experiences are a bit different than yours, I’ll keep them in mind as I work on my revisions,” Cas said, an edge to his voice that made Dean hide a grin behind his hand. If anyone were going to tell Meyer off, it would be Cas, and he would do it in such a way that she wouldn’t be able to say anything back. He hoped he’d get to see that by the end of the semester; it’d probably be the highlight of the class.

They had moved on to Annie, who was the only student who hadn’t read yet. Dean was still thinking about Cas’ poem though. He tuned Annie’s poem out completely as he started to sketch the first rose. He lost himself in the drawing, curving the stems just so and shading the thorns just right. He was concentrating so hard on making the points looks wicked in comparison to the softness of the flowers themselves that he didn’t even notice Dr. Meyer dismiss the class; Cas tapped him on the shoulder to tell him.

“It was a riveting class, I know, but it’s done. And I’m pretty sure there’s another class in this room in twenty minutes or so.”

“Smart ass,” Dean said He went to flip his notebook closed, but Cas’ hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“That’s beautiful,” he said, peering over Dean’s shoulder. His face wore an expression of near wonderment. “It looks like if I touched it, it would cut me.”

Dean shrugged. “It’s not done. It looks alright so far, though, yeah. Thanks.” He did close the notebook then and gather his things into his bag. Cas waited for him. Dean shouldered his bag and told him, “It was hard not to wanna draw it from your poem. I did really like it, even if I’m not sure I totally got it.”                                                                                                                                                                                                

 “Well, I’d be happy enough just to hear that you liked it. But that it inspired your art is something to be proud of,” Cas told him with a smile.

“I’m just some college town tattoo artist, Cas. I don’t really know how much stock you should put in my opinion.”

The two of them were at the building exit and Dean pulled a beanie out of his pocket and onto his head. Pushing open the door, he nodded to Cas to go first.

“I put a lot of stock in your opinion, Dean. You’re my friend.” The door slammed shut with a gust of wind as soon as Dean let go of it. “And besides, you don’t give yourself enough credit.”

Dean scoffed and shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Will you finish that drawing?” Cas asked, stopping at the corner. Dean nodded. “Will you show it to me when you do?”

“Of course. I mean, it was inspired by your poem. By the only poem I’ve ever actually liked, you know.”  
  
Cas’ cheeks were red from the cold, and that hid his blush from Dean. “I’ll find something else for you to like.”

“Good luck with that.”  Dean brought a hand up to adjust a plug. “You parked down that way?”

“My bus stop is that way.” Dean wrinkled his nose and Cas bristled. “The bus is a convenient and environmentally friendly mode of transportation. I do have a car, I just choose not to drive it to school most days.”

“A cold Kansas February doesn’t give you enough reason to drive?”

“It’s not that cold. I grew up in Illinois and went to seminary in Minnesota. Those Februarys were cold.”

“Let me drive you and we can compare cold stories. You don’t really wanna wait for a bus.”

Cas looked considering and Dean imploringly until Cas eventually nodded. Dean couldn’t help but smile. He jerked his head to the side so Cas would follow.

“I will tell you right now that driver picks the music in my car.”

Cas rolled his eyes. “Oh, then I really must take the bus,” he deadpanned. Dean shot him a faux-annoyed look and just kept walking, Cas keeping in stride with him.

“There is no way that car is environmentally friendly in the slightest,” Cas said once the Impala was in sight.

“You gonna insult my Baby and wait for the next bus to come by or are you gonna keep this friendship intact, Milton?” Dean said, the edge in his voice nearing seriousness. Cas murmured out an apology and gave Dean a small smile before they both slid into the car.

“I hadn’t realized you were one of those boys who’s in love with his car.”

“Hey, I rebuilt her from the ground up a few years ago. Sam and I grew up in this car for a long while. She’s like family.”

Cas remained politely tightlipped but Dean rolled his eyes. He reached under the seat and rooted around the box of tapes, pulling up four different ones. Before Cas could make out what any of them were, Dean’d found the one he wanted and popped it into the tape deck. He brushed the other ones off the bench into the box and turned the key. The engine and the stereo roared to life and hit Cas with a wave of sound. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but he could hear the appeal of the car with the way the motor purred along with the guitar riff.

Dean drummed along to the music as they pulled out of the lot and paused in his singing along to ask “So, where to?”

“You’re going to want to turn around and get back on University. It’s not complicated from there.”

Dean nodded and went back to singing along. He was off-key, but Cas liked being able to hear what the lyrics were saying, even if he wasn’t quite sure he understood the song at all.

“Who is this?” Cas asked when the song was winding down. The next one started off and Cas couldn’t quite get a grip on the timing of it, trying to listen closely since Dean hadn’t responded. He didn’t realize Dean hadn’t done so because he was goggling at him.

“Are you kidding me?’ he finally demanded.

Cas looked taken aback. “No. Should I recognize them? I’m not really much of a modern music person. I grew up with gospel and tend to listen to classical or jazz now.”

Dean took the tape out and flipped it over, then fiddled with the controls for a moment until a new song started up. When the lyrics began, this time Dean didn’t sing along, just kept looking over at Cas every chance he could until eventually Cas shrugged.

“I don’t know who this is, Dean.” Cas shrugged, “but I do like it.”

“Alright, I don’t care how much you know about poetry, you’re a philistine‒”

“I wouldn’t have thought you knew that word,” Cas shot back teasingly.

“Fuck you for that,” Dean said, pointing. He smiled a little. But the smile fell quickly. “You honestly don’t recognize Led Zeppelin when ‘Stairway to Heaven’ is what I play? You have so much of an education to receive yet.”

Cas snorted.

“I’m serious. It’ll be repayment for the poetry help.”

“Yes, well, no one is going to quiz me on Led Zeppelin, Dean, so I think I’ll pass.” Dean was shaking his head. “Turn left here.”

“Doesn’t matter what you say, Cas, I’m gonna teach you to appreciate classic rock. It’s gonna happen one way or another.”

Cas just scoffed, more to annoy Dean than because he didn’t want to‒ he hadn’t been lying when he said he liked the song‒ but the good-natured bickering was too fun to quit. If Cas were honest, it was more like flirting, and it was too much like Dean was flirting back with him. 

Dean rewound the tape to play it from the beginning and Cas was less impressed with the first song that had come on, but it was all he had time to hear before he was directing Dean where to pull in to let him out at his house.

“Thank you for the ride. I’ll see you in class.” Cas went to close the door, but not before he heard Dean tell him how serious he was about the classic rock education. Cas rolled his eyes affectionately. “Go home, Dean.”

Dean grinned at him through the window as he did.

****

Dean had finished the drawing by the next class period and Cas had gushed about it. Dean ripped it out of his notebook, ignoring the notes since he knew he’d never actually use them and shoved it at him.

“I can’t take this,” Cas protested. “You should keep it. Put it in your portfolio.”

Dean shook his head. “I’ll make a better one for my portfolio. A bigger one. A full page, not a half sheet of notebook paper, c’mon, that’s not professional.”

“Dean, I can’t take this. Use it as a reference then. It’s‒”

“Cas, take the damn drawing, would you? You like it, and it’s from your poem, so take it.”

Dean wasn’t backing down and something about his insistence made affection zip through Cas like a shot. He liked this man more than he probably should and he knew it. But he wasn’t the type who could push someone away for his own good, not when he enjoyed their company so much. Not when he liked the way Dean’s eyes would glint with amusement and the way he’d stick his tongue out to show-off the barbell in it when he was in a childishly teasing mood.

Cas reached out and took the drawing and slipped it into the folder in his notebook.

“Thank you. I love it.”

Dean looked glad, but also a little embarrassed. Dr. Meyer came in before he could say anything, and they both had to prepare to listen to her drone on about her inspiration for the poems they were supposed to have read. They really spent the class playing a massive game of Dots and Boxes. If Meyer saw them passing a paper back and forth, she didn’t say anything about it, and that gave both of them more satisfaction than it should have.

The rest of February flew by; they were assigned more poems and Dean wrote the same sort of terrible, rhyming nonsense that he could, Cas and he started to text each other about nothing in particular‒Dean giving commentary on the movies Cas said he was watching was quickly becoming Cas’ favorite activity‒, and the weather began to creep towards something spring-like. 

It was the last Saturday night of the month and Cas had been at the shop for a few hours, having texted Dean that he didn’t understand the appeal of Star Trek and Dean demanding that he come in so he and Charlie could explain it properly. They hadn’t been able to, but Cas didn’t want to get them started again. Charlie had called him uncultured and stuck her tongue out at him before she left for the night, saying she had a date. Cas flipped through the book he'd brought with him while Dean finished up with people. 

“I got you something,” Cas told him when the tinkling of the bell indicated that Dean’s last client had exited. Dean shut the file drawer he’d slipped the piercing form into and looked up with a smirk.

“Aw, Cas, you shouldn’t have,” he mocked. “I hope you don’t expect me to put out now.”

“You’re insufferable,” Cas sighed.

“But really, what gives? What’d you get me anything for?”

“You gave me your drawing. And besides, friends do that sometimes don’t they?” Cas asked defensively. “I mean‒”

“Hey, relax, I’m kidding. “ Dean held out a hand and shook it expectantly. “Thanks.”

“You don’t even know what it is yet.”

“It’ll be awesome, I’m sure. Give it up.”

“So you are putting out?” Cas teased before he could think about it. Dean’s cheeks went lightly pink and he twisted up his mouth in annoyance. Cas smiled and Dean’s expression melted back to amusement when his friend reached into his bag and pulled out a book.

“Jesus, Cas, that’s a brick. More poetry? Come on, man, hasn’t my attitude in class given away that I don’t get this stuff?” Dean asked when the book was in his hands.  He wasn’t exaggerating; it was a thick book, but Cas shrugged before rolling his eyes and responding.

“Yes, you’ve made it patently obvious. But I think you’ll get Bukowski. And I told you I would find something else you liked other than my poem.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmhmm. It’s all booze and gambling and hookers.” Dean’s eyes lit up and he grinned. He flipped through the volume and nodded approvingly.

“And they don’t even look that long. Nice. Thanks, Cas.”

“Yes, well, now maybe we won’t have to sit through you butchering the English language in your poems,” Cas responded, a little flustered at Dean’s sincerity. His direct affection was rare‒ Cas had seen it only once, catching the way Dean’s face would crack into joy when Sam made him laugh on the phone and even then, Cas was sure it was only so overt because Sam hadn’t been there to see it.  Cas knew that though the other man’s smile was at the book, it was for him.

“Nah, you’ll still have to deal with the fact that I can’t write for shit. Now you’ll just have to hear me swear more.”

“I didn’t think that was possible.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Dean laughed. Cas felt his heart thump slightly harder at the sound, but he managed to laugh a little. A shot of dread dashed through him; he hated to get his hopes up, yet it didn’t seem that parts of him had gotten that message.

“Do you have work to do around here to close?” Cas asked in an attempt not to dwell on the feelings he knew were growing in his chest.

“Only a little, but you can disinfect, right?”

“If you need me to…” Cas trailed off. Dean let out another laugh.

“Cas, I’m joking. I’ve got to clean the plugs, but you can sit, do your work. Don’t you have reading for your seminar class?”

“I’ve already done the reading. I can leave you to your work, Dean.”

“Sit. Read me some stuff out of that book then.”

“Really?” Dean had his back turned to Cas so he could slide open the jewelry case, but Cas saw him nod. “Alright.”

Cas opened the book in the middle and began to read; he found himself getting lost in the poems, forgetting that he’d given Dean the book to enjoy. While Cas generally found himself more drawn to high Modernism, or the Metaphysical, or even on occasion contemporary queer poets, the starkness, the vulgarity, and the brevity Bukowski utilized struck him as he sat on the cracked vinyl bench with the wall of flash art at his back. He could taste the whiskey on his tongue and the tobacco burning his throat as he spoke the words out to the tattooed man in front of him.  He was so caught up in the poetry that he didn’t hear Dean the first time he spoke. It was when the other man said his name that he looked up with a noise of question.

“Read that one again.”

“The one I just finished?” Dean was looking at him with a strange look on his face, part subdued wonder, part hope, and part sadness. He nodded. Cas flipped the page back and cleared his throat and he read:

“There's a bluebird in my heart that  
wants to get out  
but I'm too tough for him,  
I say, stay in there, I'm not going  
to let anybody see  
you.

  
There's a bluebird in my heart that  
wants to get out  
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale  
cigarette smoke  
and the whores and the bartenders  
and the grocery clerks  
never know that  
he's  
in there.

  
There's a bluebird in my heart that  
wants to get out  
but I'm too tough for him,  
I say,  
stay down, do you want to mess  
me up?   
you want to screw up the  
works?   
you want to blow my book sales in  
Europe? 

  
There's a bluebird in my heart that  
wants to get out  
but I'm too clever, I only let him out  
at night sometimes  
when everybody's asleep.  
I say, I know that you're there,  
so don't be  
sad.  
then I put him back,  
but he's singing a little  
in there, I haven't quite let him  
die  
and we sleep together like  
that  
with our  
secret pact  
and it's nice enough to  
make a man  
weep, but I don't  
weep, do  
you?” 

He looked back up to find the same expression as before on Dean’s face. When he caught Cas’ look he shook his head a little and schooled his face back to neutral, but they both knew he’d been caught. Dean cleared his throat then and brought his eyes back to the piece of obsidian he was cleaning.

“That’s…That’s pretty good.” He set the jewelry back in the case and continued. “I mean, that’s way better than any of the crap that gets written in that class.”

Cas tried to hide a snort. “That’s because Bukowski wasn’t a ‘tortured’ 19 year old trying to sound deep. Not at this point in his life at least. He was an old man, on the verge of dying.”

“Yeah, that’d give you some perspective, wouldn’t it?” Dean agreed. He stopped cleaning and leaned against the countertop. “Man, you think you gotta be at that sort of place in your life to think like that? To be that good?”

Part of Cas wanted to ask Dean why he wanted to know, if he wanted to be that good of a poet when it was so clear that he wanted a needle in hand or a drawing pencil and not a pen for words, but most of him didn’t want to be that contrary; he knew what his friend meant and so he had an answer that he gave hesitantly. “You don’t have to be dying to be good. I think you can be good at any time‒”

“Really?”

“I wasn’t finished. I think you can be especially good if you’re in any state of transition. If your life is different now than it was at any other time. It’s why people write love poems so often, poems of grief and poems of revolution.” Dean looked considering and Cas went on. “And you can be that good if you get out of your own head for a minute and remember that just because it’s poetry, it doesn’t negate that it can be fiction. Meyer doesn’t seem to know that.”

Dean shrugged in agreement. He locked up the jewelry case again and told Cas, “You oughta be teaching our class, man.”

Cas couldn’t help but smile at the compliment and when Dean asked if he wanted to get something to eat at the diner down the street, he nodded. It was easy to eat a burger and ask Dean about his appointments for the day and how his Business Owner seminar class went the previous morning; if it was more difficult for Cas to pretend that he didn’t feel as though he himself has something thumping in his heart wanting to get out, he wouldn’t acknowledge it.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean had hit his stride of the semester in full swing by the start of March. Work was good and he was keeping busy, especially when John was starting to prepare for the expo he was going to be attending the next weekend.  Cas had started to become a fixture around the shop, always observing and writing, though about what, he wouldn’t say.

Dean was almost looking forward to a few days of running the shop, hoping he might get some time alone there. He loved that he worked with his father, and he loved Charlie like a sister, and he had no problem with Cas hanging around, organizing magazines and the like in their waiting room when he was blocked, but there were times when he needed to just breathe in the atmosphere of his work and savor it. He could only do that alone.

It was why when he hugged John goodbye before the expo, he said “and feel free to stay in St. Louis some extra time.”

“You wanna be the boss, son?” John had joked back at him. Dean’d shrugged with one shoulder and smirked.

“Might not be so bad.”

John snorted back a laugh. “Just try not to burn the place down, alright?”

“No promises.”

He’d waved as his dad slammed the door of his truck and backed out of the lot.

Creedence Clearwater Revival was playing through the speakers in the tattoo shop. Charlie had finished up her last appointment‒ one that lasted much longer than expected, something complicated and genital if Dean’d read her expression afterwards correctly‒ twenty minutes earlier and had just left for the night so Dean was on his own, finishing up some paperwork. He was tapping his pen along to the beat so loudly he didn’t even notice that his phone was buzzing on his work station. The only reason he caught the ringing in time to answer it was that he looked back and saw the screen lighting up. The exact spelling of the cat memorial tattoo he’d done for that guy earlier today would have to wait.

“Hello?” he answered. He didn’t recognize the number and he couldn’t hear the voice well enough when it responded. “I’m sorry, hold on one second.”

Dean punched the radio off and the shop suddenly felt absolutely silent.

“Is this Dean Winchester?” Dean still didn’t recognize the voice and his adrenaline spiked; he didn’t remember doing anything that would have gotten him a strange phone call lately.

“Speaking, yes,” he responded, shifting into professional mode. He crossed back to the chair he’d been occupying and picked his pen back up, trying to make his body relax.

“Sir, this is Deputy Hudak with highway patrol out of Kansas City, Missouri. There’s been an accident involving a car registered to John Winchester. You’re listed as his emergency contact, is he of any relation to you?”

Dean barely heard the last half of what Deputy Hudak had said; he’d heard “accident” and then static white noise drowned everything else out as it blared through his brain, turning everything into fuzz.

“Accident? What kind of accident? With my dad? What happened? Is my dad‒” Dean was babbling, knowing that the woman on the other end of the line was trying to speak, was trying to explain exactly what was going on, but Dean’s brain wouldn’t process that he needed to listen to have his questions answered. His words came a mile a minute still. “He’s okay, right? Can I talk to him? What happened?”

“Mr. Winchester, sir, I need you to remain calm. I’ll try to answer your questions if you’ll slow down, son. Take a deep breath for me; can you do that, Mr. Winchester?” After a brief moment of silence, Deputy Hudak went on. “Did you take a deep breath for me, Dean?”

Dean took an exaggerated breath for the benefit of the officer, but his heart was pounding in his chest in danger of leaping out of his throat and he knew that if he were anyone else, his hands would be shaking, slamming his phone against his ear with the violence of the tremors.

“Yes, ma’am,” Dean said after a moment.

“Your father was in a car accident here on the local highway, not the interstate. From what we can tell, he must have been swerving out of the way of a drunk driver who was dipping into the oncoming lane.”

“He wasn’t drunk?” Dean didn’t care how that sounded at the moment; he’d remembered more than a few nights when John came stumbling in after having had some rough day where it was clear that he shouldn’t have had any business behind the wheel of a car. Even if those nights hadn’t happened in what seemed like a long while, Dean had to know. He had to know his dad wasn’t at fault. That he hadn’t gotten anyone hurt.

“No, sir, he was not. The other driver was.”

“Is he okay? What happened?”

There was a moment of quiet on the other end of the line and Dean didn’t consciously realize it, but his stomach sank so fast that he was on the verge of throwing up.

“When he swerved, it was unfortunately into another lane of traffic. Highway 24 is an alternative route to I-70 while there’s construction around here and many truck drivers have been using it. Unfortunately, your father’s car was struck by one such truck and the vehicle rolled.”

“Is he hurt?” Dean demanded. “How badly is he hurt?”

He knew he needed to keep his voice at a reasonable volume, but there was no controlling it at all. He had no idea if he was actually shouting or not, but he knew he wanted to. He knew, somewhere in the back of his mind that he should be shouting, that he should be screaming and getting in the Impala and driving east as fast as he could even if John hadn’t been hurt, that he should be hanging up and calling John himself, but he couldn’t move from his spot enough to even set the pen in his hand down.

“He was airlifted to North Kansas City Hospital as soon as was possible, Mr. Winchester. His injuries are very severe and he’s in critical condition at the moment.”

Dean felt as if everything had slowed down to half-speed. He had no idea what the officer on the phone was saying, as it all came out completely garbled when it hit Dean’s ears. There was blood pounding in his head and rushing throughout his body and he didn’t understand how he still had a grip on the phone.

“North Kansas City Hospital?” Dean asked, the question coming out as a croak.

“Yes, sir. I’d make sure to get there as soon as you can. But drive carefully!”

The last warning fell on deaf ears; Dean’d already hung up and was scrambling to grab his jacket off out of John’s office‒ an office he’d been looking forward to taking over for the weekend. As he snatched his keys out of his pocket he thought that he’d never use the office again if it meant that his dad would be alright. Dean missed the second switch when he made to turn the lights off and only years of John bitching at him about the electric bill were enough to make him take the extra two seconds to turn off all the lights in the parlor. He fumbled with locking the door out of sheer frustration and worry, but he was in the Impala in no time. He gunned the engine and he flew down the highway, knowing he was making what should have been at least a forty-five minute trip down to a half hour one. He didn’t remember a single thing that he’d passed by on the road, or a single song he’d heard on the radio, or a single thought he’d had in his head other than _please, please, please, please._

The Impala was crooked in the parking spot, but Dean didn’t care at all as he raced through the parking lot to the emergency entrance of the hospital and practically skidded to a stop in front of the desk.

“I got a phone call- my dad, he was in an accident, a bad one, he‒”

Dean was out of breath and he wanted to punch the woman who was holding her hands up in a placating manner. “Calm down, sir. What’s your name? You’re not injured? Just your father?”

“No, I’m not hurt! He is! Winchester. His name is John Winchester. They airlifted him here.” Dean was shouting and he knew it then. “I need to know what’s going on!”

The reception nurse was saying something to him he thought, but the set of doors to his left were opening and Dean was making a break for slipping through them. At least within the hospital he’d be able to search on his own if he needed to. The receptionist yelled “Mr. Winchester! Mr. Winchester, wait!” after him as the doors swung closed.

But Dean didn’t get far. A dark haired woman in bloody scrubs was walking out those doors that had opened and despite the fact that she was possibly a foot shorter than Dean and slender, she stopped him in his tracks.

“Mr. Winchester, I’m going to ask that you take a seat so I can explain to you the extent of your father’s injuries, alright?”

“Are you his doctor?” Dean asked, not having moved anywhere near towards sitting down. He didn't even question how she knew who he was. 

The woman shook her head. “My name is Dr. Tessa Bartholeme. I was only asked to assist when he was brought into surgery‒”

“Surgery?”

She placed a hand on Dean’s arm and tried to lead him back out the doors to the empty sitting area. Tessa waved off the receptionist's glare. It was some sort of miracle that it was an unoccupied place. She nodded at him once he finally sat down and then she pulled a chair closer to across from him. Her murky green eyes bore into him and stilled him though she was clearly trying to project an air of calm. It worked well enough that he didn’t notice when the space was no longer empty.

“Your father, John, came in with a number of severe injuries, one of which was a punctured lung. The doctors had to go in and try to fix that, and they had to check for other internal bleeding. They’re still working on him as we speak, alright?”

“When can I see him?” was the only coherent thought that Dean could express and he knew it was a stupid one on some level that wasn’t functioning at all at the moment.

“We don’t know yet,” she said, not unkindly, with a shake of her head.

Dean couldn’t say anything.

“I need to return to helping, but as soon as we know anything else, I will come find you and tell you. Will that be alright?”

Dean nodded numbly. Tessa stood and she placed a hand on his shoulder as she left. Dean watched her retreat and felt nothing but cold panic.

He couldn’t feel a thing, not the hardness of the chair he sat on, not the heat of the room, not the way his ring dug into his finger with his fists balled, not the weight of his cell phone in his pocket. He could barely think anything other than _please_ though he wanted to try to calm himself down. There was no way he could.

He had no idea how long he sat there and waited; it could have been an eternity or it could have been a millisecond. He hadn’t noticed if people around him moved or left or got coffee. His eyes were glued to the door waiting for Tessa to return. 

When she did, Dean stood up. He tried to take one foot off the ground and put it in front of the other and walk to her, but he was rooted to the ground. She looked no different than she had before and Dean tried not to hope that was a good sign.

“Is he alright?” The question came out as a rasp. “When can I see him?”

“Mr. Winchester,” she started, her voice low and her eyes softening, “perhaps we should sit down.”

Dean felt his stomach plummet and the world was suddenly upside down. His knees gave out and he sat down hard.

“Your father sustained massive injuries, as I said before. Unfortunately, the number of them combined with their severity lead to complications during surgery‒”

There was a blankness is Dean’s head, a blankness that was accompanied by a high pitched buzzing that filled up his ears and made him want to shake until he was rid of it. He could see the doctor’s lips moving, and he knew that she was talking, but he couldn’t make out the words because of the buzzing. It was probably something he needed to pay attention to.

“‒we tried everything we could after we stopped the bleeding but‒”

_He’s dead. He’s_ dead _. Not waking up. Not walking out of here._ Dead.

He didn’t need to actually hear her say it to know.

“‒we have services that can help you take care‒”

“I need to call my brother.” Dean startled himself as he said it. He sounded calm, though he felt anything but. He didn’t remain so. “I have to call my brother, and I have to see my dad. I have to see the body. I can’t just take your word for it. I have to see him. I have‒”

“Mr. Winchester, you can,” Tessa said, soothingly, trying to stave off the hysterics Dean had been about to spiral into. She laid a hand on his arm, gently as possible, and Dean flinched away. She didn’t withdraw. “I’ll give you a moment to call your brother and get you some paperwork. Then I’ll let you say goodbye to your father.”

Dean nodded. He was already reaching into his pocket. “I’m just. I’m gonna go outside to make this call.”

He didn’t see the small smile Tessa tried to give him.

He didn’t know what he said to Sam when he got ahold of him; he didn’t know what all the paperwork Tessa gave him was for or about; he didn’t know anything at all from the whole rest of the night, other than his father was dead.


	6. Chapter 6

When Cas went by Salvation Ink on Sunday, it was closed, despite what the hours printed on the door read. He maybe should have called ahead of time, but Dean hadn’t responded to any of his texts throughout the weekend. Hence, just showing up at the parlor unannounced. Now, however, it felt like a silly idea.

Instead of trying Dean again, Cas pulled out his phone and scrolled to a number he hadn’t used yet. He hit send with only a moment’s trepidation.

“Hello?” came Charlie’s answer.

“Hello, Charlie. This is Castiel Milton. Er, Cas. I hate to be a bother, but how come the shop is closed? Is Dean alright?” He tried not to let worry creep into his voice.

“Oh, god, Cas, you don’t know.”

“Know what?” he asked before she could go on.

“The shop’s been closed since Friday night. It’s gonna be closed all week probably. John was in a car accident.”

Cas’ face fell. He dreaded hearing Charlie say anymore and silently prayed that the answer to his next question would be ‘no.’ “Is he badly hurt?”

There was silence on the other end of the line and Cas’ dread grew further.

“He was killed.” Charlie’s voice broke as she said it. Cas’ heart broke with it.

“Oh, God. I’m so sorry, Charlie. I’m so sorry.” He couldn’t even imagine how Dean felt. “If there’s anything I can do…”

Charlie sniffled a little and then cleared her throat. “Thanks. Sam’s coming home tomorrow so I think he and Dean are gonna take care of everything, but maybe you could just, I don’t know, make sure Dean’s got someone getting his assignments or something? I don’t know. I don’t know what’s gonna happen. I just. I can’t really believe it yet. Sam had to tell me, you know? Dean just…”

 _Can’t,_ Cas finished in his mind. He wasn’t surprised to hear it at all. It was always clear that Dean was close with his father, that he idolized him in so many ways, that Cas was sure that this was breaking him.

“I’ll make sure you know when the funeral is. If Dean contacts you‒”

“I’ll do whatever I can for him, Charlie. Of course.”

She didn’t have to say thanks; the way she said “I’m sorry, I’ve gotta go. Take care of yourself,” told him that she appreciated the sentiment.

Cas just hoped that whatever he could do would be enough if Dean wanted his help. 

***

It was only 11:13 PM on Tuesday according to the time blinking on his cable box, but Cas was annoyed by the fact that there was a pounding at his door. Mr. O’Malley really needed to have someone looking out for him, because it had to have been the fourth time in three months that he wound up on Cas’ porch instead of his own, and this time it was storming. Cas prepared to paste a polite smile on, grab an umbrella, and walk the old man to the next house, but Mr. O’Malley wasn’t the one on his porch.  It was Dean. Water droplets littered his leather jacket and they clung to his eyelashes.

“Dean, are you alright?” Cas asked when Dean looked up at him and didn’t say a word. “I mean, are you physically hurt?”

“No, I’m just a little drunk,” Dean shrugged. Cas’ eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Just a little drunk,” he repeated.

“Should I call Sam to come get you? He got into town yesterday, right?”

Dean was shaking his head and Cas opened his mouth to say something but Dean cut him off. “Can I come in, man?”

Cas opened the door further and let Dean step in. He shrugged off his jacket and haphazardly tossed it onto a peg on the coatrack. He bent down and wobbled a little but untied his boots and slipped them off, knocking the one onto its side.

“Don’t call Sam,” Dean said finally. He was just standing in the foyer in his socks and Cas wasn’t sure of what to do. He didn’t know what Dean needed from him, how he could help whatever was going on, and Dean didn’t seem particularly inclined to inform him. “You got any beer?”

“Dean, I don’t know that‒”

“Just have one beer with me, Cas, come on.”

Cas sighed but nodded. One beer wouldn’t kill him and probably wouldn’t put Dean over the edge. He waved a hand to tell Dean to follow him and heard him stumble a little bit; he mentally emphasized the probably in his last thought.

In the kitchen, he handed Dean a beer and watched him pop the cap off the bottle. He held his hand out to take Cas’ as well and did the same. Cas leaned against the counter next to the refrigerator and took a sip and watched as Dean move so he wasn’t leaning against the stove and then do the same. They stood in silence for a moment.

“Do you want to tell me what this is about?”

“No,” Dean shrugged.

“Then get out,” Cas said. Dean looked up at him sharply and then it was Cas who shrugged. “I’d rather help you than let you fume in silence. And if you just want to fume, I’d rather you went home and did it. Let your brother fume with you.”

“Sammy doesn’t fume.” Dean ran a hand through his hair. It stood up since it was wet. “I love my brother, but I can’t be around him right now. I just can’t, Cas. He expects me to be making decisions and he wants me to talk and I’m supposed to be strong for him, to take care of him because that’s my job‒ it’s always been my job‒ and I can’t.”

Cas stayed silent and Dean took another pull from his beer bottle.

“And I can’t do any of that because I can’t feel a damn thing. My dad’s dead and my little brother needs me and I can’t make myself feel it. All I feel is this gaping emptiness. And I thought I would leave the house and get drunk and then I didn’t know what to do from there. I just don’t know what to do.” Dean’s voice was flat.

“Dean,” Cas started after a moment. “Why couldn’t you just tell that to your brother?”

“Because it’s not his responsibility to fix me!” Dean nearly shouted. Cas startled.  “I help him‒ I can’t put this crap on him! I shouldn’t even be putting this crap on you!”

The hum of the fridge and the hammering of the rain were the only sounds they could hear. Neither wanted to speak because neither knew what to say. Dean didn’t look up at all to see Cas watching him, wondering what the next move would be. They’d both finished their beers before either of them broke the silence.

“I don’t mind. I’ll help you any way I can,” Cas finally told him.

“Then just tell me what to do.” Cas opened his mouth. “But don’t tell me to go home. Not yet.” Dean picked up the cap from his beer and spun it in his hands and played with it. He bent it and the steel cut him.

“Come here,” Cas told him. Dean shuffled across the kitchen with his thumb in his mouth. “Give me your hand.”

Dean stuck his hand out and Cas shifted them so they could get Dean’s hand under the faucet.  Cas had a grip on his wrist and let the water run over his thumb and wash the blood welling up away. It didn’t take long for the blood to stop, but Cas didn’t let go of Dean’s wrist because he could feel Dean staring.

“What, Dean?” When he asked he did let go, but Dean flipped his hand around and took hold of Cas’ wrist.

“Tell me what to do, Cas.” At those close quarters, Cas could smell the alcohol on Dean’s breath, but he could also count every freckle the man had and could see the individual strokes of each eyelash and he was beautiful.

“Let go of me,” Cas said. Dean dropped his wrist immediately, but he didn’t back up. He shifted and Cas could feel Dean’s socked feet right next to his bare ones. They were warm. “Tell me what you want.”

“That’s not fair,” Dean breathed out.

“I don’t care,” Cas told him. Cas could feel his heartbeat thumping in his chest and he didn’t have control of this situation at all. Dean waited until Cas met his eyes.

“I want you to make me feel something.”

“I don’t know what that means.” Dean pressed closer to Cas and Cas could feel where the ankles of Dean’s jeans were wet and where his belt buckle dug into Cas’ belly a little.

“I want you to fuck me.” Dean leaned down and Cas put a hand on his shoulder and pushed. Dean’s eyes flew back open.

“No.”

Dean started to stammer something out, his demeanor completely lost, and Cas could see the heat rising in his cheeks. Cas reached out again and put a hand on Dean’s chest, stilling him.

“I’m not going to fuck you. Not now. Not when you’ve been drinking. Ask me something else, Dean, and I’ll do it.”

Dean looked up and Cas almost expected there to be a glimmer of hope in his eyes, but all he saw was desperation and the underlying tone of lust. Cas’ heart caught in his throat and when Dean hesitantly put his hands on Cas’ waist, his blood rushed downward.

“Make me feel something else, then. Tell me what to do.”

Cas waited a beat before he said “Kiss me” but Dean didn’t hesitate at all. 

It was sloppy and tasted like whiskey and felt like Dean’s stubble, but Cas brought his hands up to Dean’s face and took control of it anyway. Dean let Cas’s tongue flick at the seam of his lips and opened them right away and hardly noticed that they were moving until his back slammed against the fridge.

Cas took his hands off of Dean’s face only to grab onto his wrists where Dean’s hands had fallen to rest on Cas’ hips and force them over Dean’s head. Dean moaned when Cas tightened his grip and sucked on his tongue, his barbell pulling in a way that sent heat through him. Cas nipped at Dean’s bottom lip and bucked his hips forward to press Dean against the fridge even farther. Cas’ lips moved down to lay kisses against Dean’s jawline and down to his neck and back up to nibble at his earlobe and Dean’s breath came heavy in Cas’ ear. He whined a little at a particularly hard bite followed by a soothing tongue.

“Cas,” Dean breathed and Cas moved one of his hands down to slide down Dean’s side.

“What, Dean? What do you need?” Cas’ tone was clipped but the gravel of his voice slithered through Dean down to his cock, which was rapidly becoming interested in the proceedings despite the amount of alcohol Dean had consumed.

“Please.”

“Please what?” Cas punctuated the question with a hard squeeze around Dean’s wrists and snaking his other hand under his shirt.

“Please fuck me,” Dean said. Cas rammed his wrists against the fridge and Dean hissed in pain even as his hips humped up in pleasure.  

“I already told you no. Ask me again tonight and I won’t do anything for you. Do you understand?”

Dean held back a whimper and nodded. When Cas kept an eyebrow raised in expectancy, Dean nodded again as he said “Yes, Cas, I understand. I won’t ask you again.”

“Good boy,” Cas practically purred and he went back to kissing Dean’s neck, biting and sucking and possibly leaving hickeys. Dean’s hips were moving on their own accord, trying to grind up against Cas before he pulled away, dropping his hands from touching Dean. “Get your shirts off.”

Dean set to work on the buttons of his flannel and pulled it over his head as soon as he could, whipping his t-shirt off right afterward. He shivered under Cas’ examination of his body, the slight softness layered over his abs and the way his nipples were peaked and the flush that was rising from his chest to his neck.

Cas brought a hand up to Dean’s face and set his thumb against his bottom lip. He pulled it down just a bit as his thumb dragged so it got wet and followed a path down the column of his neck to the divet between his pectorals and all the way down past his bellybutton to just above the button on his jeans. Dean bit his lip to keep from asking for Cas to lower his hand and touch him.

Cas noticed the restraint, if his smile was anything to go by, and brought both hands up to pinch Dean’s nipples. Dean hissed and Cas let go to sooth them with light caresses of his thumbs, and just brush them back and forth.

“You don’t like that I’m teasing you?” Cas asked, looking at Dean’s face. “What do you want me to do, Dean? Tell me.”

“Whatever you want,” Dean tried. It earned him a hard pinch to one nipple, one that hurt more than aroused, though his dick didn’t get that memo. “Touch me. Please, touch my dick.”

Cas moved his hand down and did, gripping Dean through his jeans and making him groan. Cas squeezed at his length and ran his hand around up the bulge in his pants as Dean jerked his hips up to get more pressure. Cas removed his hand and Dean started to whine until Cas was pressed against him completely.

The material of Cas’ shirt scratched at Dean’s sensitive nipples but he didn’t care at all when he could feel Cas’ cock hot through his pants against his. He couldn’t help but buck up against it and Cas rolled his hips along with him. Cas captured Dean’s lips in a brutal kiss, one more teeth than lips and kept rocking his hips and the two of them stayed against the fridge rutting against each other and panting into each other’s mouths until Dean thought he might start begging for Cas to forget his rules and just fuck him already.

“Take off your pants,” Cas finally told him. Dean didn’t know the last time he dropped his jeans so quickly, his belt clattering to the floor and his phone tumbling from his pocket as the denim hit the ground.  His boxers followed the same path and he stumbled as he stepped out of the pile of clothes.

Cas pressed against him again and Dean groaned at the feel of his hard cock against Cas’ pants, soft but still leaving him wanting the feel of skin to skin. Cas was flush with him, and ignored the groaning as he kept kissing Dean’s neck, moving from one side to the next without any indication that he had intentions of progressing. Dean was concentrating so hard on how good it felt when Cas scraped his teeth lightly against him that he didn’t even notice that Cas’ hands were moving down until he squeezed his ass.

He massaged his cheeks and kept kissing as though he would be content to stand there and continue all night and it drove Dean just about crazy. It gave him a chance to work his own hands under Cas’ shirt, but he’d barely grazed up Cas’ obliques when Cas backed up and left him reaching.

Cas’ shirt landed across the kitchen when he whipped it off but he stepped out of his lounge pants and left them right where they were to come back to Dean.

The skin to skin contact made both of them groan and buck up into each other. They kissed with renewed vigor and Dean ran his hands up Cas’ back. Cas returned to kneading Dean’s butt, this time his fingertips playing at his crease. All the while their cocks were sliding against each other as they rutted up. Precome slicked their way as it leaked from Dean.

“Turn around,” Cas said in between kisses.

“Oh, fuck, yes,” Dean nodded and spun around. He stuck his ass out and pressed his chest to the fridge with his hands splayed out at shoulder height.

“You’re so eager, Dean. But I told you I’m not going to fuck you. Not like you want me to.” The edge in Cas’ voice sent liquid heat down Dean’s spine. It shot straight to his dick and pushed more precome out when Cas went on. “Some other time I’ll let you beg for it.”

Dean whimpered and then he felt Cas back away from him. He didn’t dare turn around and look where Cas went, but he could hear a cupboard opening and then shutting. Cas footsteps drew closer until his cock pressed right at the crack of Dean’s ass and it took all of his willpower not to just grind back.

“You’re a good boy for not moving, Dean.” Just the way Cas said his name made him impossibly harder. It made most of the thoughts fly from his head as well. Which was exactly why Dean jumped when he felt a slick hand come up to cup his balls. When Cas started to roll them, just a shade too hard, he practically keened.

Cas went from Dean’s balls to grease between his thighs and back and forth, teasing at the base of his dick and at his hole whenever he moved. Dean was panting into the fridge and his fingers were clenching with every brush of a digit. Whatever Cas was using to slick him up had dripped down his legs a little and it only added to Dean’s arousal. He turned his head when Cas stopped touching him and could see that Cas had poured a little more of whatever was in the bottle into his hand and was using it to stroke his own cock to wetness. He must have seen Dean looking, because he smirked.

“I’m not in the habit of fucking people in my kitchen. It’s olive oil. Safe enough.” As he said it, he grabbed Dean’s arm and he dragged him away from the fridge so he was against the counter between it and the stove. He put a hand in the middle of Dean’s back and pushed forward and Dean whined. “Hands behind your back.”

Dean complied quickly, crossing them at the wrist and Cas wrapped one hand around them. Dean made sure he kept his chest to the cold countertop and his nipples hardened up even more from the coolness. His precome pooled on the surface and he couldn’t help but grind his cock into the slicked up hardness. He felt Cas kick his legs closer together and before he could process it, he felt Cas’ dick slide between his legs.

The head of it brushed Dean’s balls, the wetness at the tip evident. Cas started slow, his long strokes almost pulling his dick out from the pressure of Dean’s legs so that it teased at the crack of his ass more. But he started to speed up when Dean tried to squeeze his legs even closer together.

“I’m going to get myself off just like that, and come on your ass and then I’ll let you fuck my hand until you come. And that’s all you’re going to get, Dean. And only if you’re a good boy and stay bent over like a good slut for me.”

“Fuck,” Dean groaned out in a whine.

Cas’ pace made Dean rub himself up against the counter and he wasn’t even totally sure he would need Cas’ hand with the pressure on his cock. He could hear the way Cas’ breath changed as he got closer to coming and the pace grew more erratic. Cas let go of his hands and pushed him down again, hard and then Dean felt the wet heat of Cas coming against his cheeks. 

Cas didn’t take any time to manhandle Dean up and get a hand around his cock. The warmth and tightness of it and the way Cas twisted his wrist on the upstroke made Dean buck into him quickly. It didn’t take long for Dean to spill over Cas’ fingers, some of his come hitting the mess of the counter.

Dean was still breathing hard when he felt Cas move away and saw him grab the towel from the oven handle. It scratched at his ass when Cas wiped him clean and he couldn’t stop his nose from wrinkling when Cas wiped the counter down too.

Dean was about to say something‒ what, he wasn’t sure‒ when Cas cut him off with a kiss.

“Go upstairs and shower. Towels are in the closet in the bathroom. Then borrow some sweatpants and go to bed, Dean. We’ll talk tomorrow. I have work I need to finish.”

With another quick kiss, Cas swatted him on the ass lightly and directed him toward the stairs. When Dean turned around to try to catch his eye, he couldn’t. And he was fairly certain he was glad of that.


	7. Chapter 7

Dean woke up to the smell of bacon and the sight of an unfamiliar quilt covering him. When he realized he was naked, he remembered where he was and he grimaced in embarrassment. Pulling his pants on, completely disregarding his boxers, and slipping into his flannel, he tried to make it down the stairs as quickly as possible. He was hoping that Cas was still cooking and it wasn’t the leftover scent he could smell.

For the first time in what seemed like a long while, he was in luck and Cas was standing at the stove frying bacon while a pot of coffee percolated. He wore the same clothes he’d had on last night and his hair stuck every which way. Dean saw him tilt his head to work a kink out of his neck and felt terrible that he’d caused Cas to sleep on his own couch instead of in his bed.

“Hey,” he started, not wanting to sneak up on Cas. Cas turned and nodded in acknowledgment.

“Do you want toast? Eggs?”

“You don’t have to make me anything, Cas,” Dean said. He went silent for a moment and weighed the pros and cons of pretending as though the previous night had never happened. But he could barely look at Cas without wanting to blush so he sighed and continued. “I feel like such an asshole. No, I _am_ such an asshole.”

Cas was taking bacon out of the pan and he finished before he turned to address Dean’s concern.

“You are a little bit, yes,” he admitted, no sympathy in his voice. “But not for the reasons you think.”

At that, Dean lifted his head from his hands.

“I didn’t do anything unwillingly last night, Dean. You didn’t coerce me into anything. I could have easily told you to get out. I feel bad, because I should have. I don’t regret the sex‒” he held a hand up at Dean’s open mouth. “The non-sex, yes I know. But I would hate if you did.”

Cas remained calm throughout his explanation and then turned around to get bread to toast. Dean got out an “I don’t” before Cas pressed the button down.

“I mean, it was good. It was what I needed, but we’re friends, man. And I don’t have the best track record with this sort of shit. And I’m kinda in this weird place right now that doesn’t really lend itself to relationships so‒”

“Dean,” Cas cut him off and waited to go on until Dean would look him in the eye. Cas had an amused look on his face and one eyebrow curled up. “Who said anything about that? I’m not some blushing virgin who thinks that intercrural and handjob means love.”

“There’s a name for thigh fucking?”

Cas snorted out a laugh. The toaster chose that moment to go off and Cas grabbed the pieces with the tips of his forefinger and thumb and dropped them each onto a plate. He grabbed butter out of the fridge and picked up the conversation.

“I don’t mind that you needed me like that. I would just ask that if it happens again, you’re sober when you ask for it.” He held up the knife in his hand. “Do you want butter or jam on your toast?”

Dean stared, mouth agape. Cas simply tilted his head in question. “Just butter.” Cas’ mouth twitched in a smile and he started to slather butter onto the second piece of toast. “So, you’re saying we’re cool? Like, we’re cool, cool?”

“I’m saying that as far as I’m concerned we are, yes. You’re my friend, Dean.”  Cas sounded so sincere as he said the last part that if Dean were a different sort of person, he would have gotten up and hugged him. He knew Sam would have done it. “Plus, you might be the only reason I’m not going absolutely crazy in Meyer’s class.”

A genuine laugh bubbled up from Dean and his mood broke. He thought that maybe he hadn’t really messed up quite as badly as he could have.

“Oh, by the way, you dropped your phone last night and I didn’t realize it before I brought your clothes upstairs. It’s in the living room charging.”

“Thanks,” Dean told him and got up. He buttoned his flannel all the way as he retrieved his phone and saw that he had 3 missed calls and six text messages; all of them were from Sam.

_‘where the hell are you?’_

_‘dude seriously’_

_‘DEAN WHAT THE FUCK’_

_‘you’d better just be drunk with some girl you asshole.’_

Dean didn’t bother to read the other two, knowing that they would be angrier out of worry. He dialed his brother right where he was.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Sam asked without preamble. “I thought you might be in a ditch somewhere and you can’t do that right after Dad, not now‒”

“I’m fine, Sammy. I’m not dead. I didn’t drive drunk. I didn’t even drive at all. Just took the keys so you wouldn’t come looking for me. I’m fine.”

“You’re an asshole. You could have texted me. Where are you? I can come get you. You didn’t take Dad’s keys he kept.”

Dean massaged the bridge of his nose. He knew that talking to Sam would bring up their father and he would feel just as much like shit as he had the night before. He’d rather feel like an asshole than feel the grief that was tearing at him, hollowing him out.

“Lost track of time is all. ‘s’why I didn’t let you know. I’m sorry, alright? I won’t do it again.”

There was silence on the other end for a moment. Dean knew Sam didn’t believe him, but he didn’t say that. He just asked “When are you coming home?”

“I’ll be home in half hour. I gotta get some coffee and some breakfast in me before I have to deal with whatever shit I have to deal with. But I’ll be there. I’ll be able to start getting shit settled.”

“Dean, you don’t have to do it alone. You know I‒”

“I’ll be home, Sam. Get some more sleep or something. Shower. I’ll see you in a while.”

Dean didn’t give Sam a chance to respond, he just hung up. He got little satisfaction from pressing that red ‘end call’ button and seeing his brother’s picture disappear from the screen. He headed back to the kitchen and slipped his phone into his pocket.

“Coffee’s black but your toast’s probably gone a little cold,” Cas said when Dean was in view. Dean nodded at him and gave him a tired smile. He sucked down half his cup of coffee almost at once, not caring that it was still warm enough that it burned his throat as he did. The toast had gone a little cold, but he still ate it in three bites.

Cas cleared his throat. “Everything alright?”

Dean nodded and swallowed the last bit of toast he was still chewing. He took another gulp of coffee.

“I just gotta get back to my brother. We’ve got so much stuff we gotta take care of, not that I want to, because it’s going to be fucking awful, but if I leave him alone too long he’ll start doing it on his own and I can’t let him do that.”

“You and your brother sound more alike than you ever let on,” Cas said, doing a bad job of hiding his amusement. Dean just pursed his lips in annoyance at him. “But I understand. Do you need a ride home?”

“Naw, I’ll take a cab. I asked enough of you for a few days at least. More like a few years.”

Cas bit back his argument and just went on with stirring the right amount of sugar into his coffee. Dean crunched on his bacon and licked the grease off his fingers as he went. Cas tried not to stare at his lips while he did. He was fairly certain he succeeded.

With one last cleaning of his fingers, Dean stood up. He took his plate to the sink when Cas nodded at his implied question and then turned, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Not to eat and run,” Dean started. Cas waved off the rest of the sentence. He started to get up and Dean stopped him. “Don’t get up. Let me get out of your hair.”

Cas ignored him then and stood anyway. Dean didn’t have the grace to hide his annoyance and Cas couldn’t help but be amused.

“Dean, I came on you last night. The least I can do is walk you to the door.”

Dean blushed scarlet and Cas laughed, which earned him a glare.

“You know, for that I should ask you for cab money,” Dean pointed out as the headed toward the door. Cas made a move towards his pocket. “Dude, I’m kidding.”

The two of them stood there awkwardly for a moment before Dean wrapped his hand around the handle. He looked over his shoulder at Cas.

“Thank you _.” For everything. And I’m sorry,_ he wanted to go on, but something caught in his throat and he couldn’t. He left it at that.

Cas nodded and gave a tight lipped smile as Dean left. When he closed the door he let out the breath he’d been holding all morning and let his forehead slump against the door. He knew he was completely fucked.

***

Sam’s eyes were red rimmed and his hair was a mess when Dean got home. He stood up from the couch he was sitting on and going through various papers and approached Dean. He slugged him on the arm, harder than he’d probably intended to.

“Dude, I apologized already. What the fuck?”

But Dean’s question was muffled by Sam’s shoulder; as soon as he’d thrown the punch, he’d pulled his brother into a hug. Dean patted him on the back and let the embrace get tighter. He wouldn’t admit it, but he wanted to cling to Sam for the rest of his life at this point; he couldn’t and he wouldn’t, but he wanted to keep his brother within arms-reach until they were both dead.

“You seriously scared the shit out of me, Dean,” Sam said as he pulled back. He didn’t even try to hide the fact that he was wiping tears from his eyes. Dean couldn’t look him in the face for very long. He ran a hand over his face instead.

“I know, Sammy. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. Just need outta this house, you know?”

Sam nodded and scratched at the back of his neck. “Are you okay now? Do you need to sleep more or anything?”

Dean plopped down onto the recliner across from the couch with a sigh. “Don’t need more sleep. Might need more booze. This being sober shit’s for the birds.”

Sam’s mouth became a hard line and Dean sent him an apologetic look until it softened. He sat back down on the worn down, taupe sofa and picked up the papers again.

He jerked his chin towards Sam and asked, “What are you looking at, anyway?”

“I’m trying to find if Dad had any life insurance‒”

“He did,” Dean interrupted. “He kept most of the papers like that in the safe at the shop. Thought security was better there than here at the house.”

Sam let his hands, and the papers in them, come to rest on his lap.

“When did he start doing that?” It was a quiet question and Dean almost wanted to bite his tongue for having said anything, as illogical as it was.

“A while ago. I don’t know exactly. But he kept insurance papers there, kept his and Mom’s wedding certificate, her death certificate, our birth certificates. I think he had better theft insurance there than here. Most of that equipment is more expensive than the stuff we have here.” Dean shrugged as he said it. “We can go get the stuff later today, but I already started on the life insurance stuff before you got out here.”

Sam reacted like Dean slapped him in the face and his eyes welled up again.

“No, Sammy, don’t be upset about that,” Dean was out of the recliner and to his brother and reassuring him as fast as possible. He crouched down and got on Sam’s eye-level, not going on until he was looking at him. “You were at school. You couldn’t just drop everything and get back right away.”

“Yeah, but Dean, you shouldn’t have to do this alone.”

“And I’m not now, am I? I’m your big brother; I’m supposed to do the hard stuff. You’re supposed to be studying and being a genius out in California and being a kid. I want you to be doing that.” Dean chanced a small smile as he spoke.

Sam tried to give him a watery one back. He sniffled and composed himself once again. Dean went to stand up, but Sam grabbed at his hand. “Dean, you’re still a kid too.”

“Dude, I’m 26,” he said with annoyance in his voice. That got Sam to laugh.

“Jerk.”

“Bitch,” Dean replied affectionately. He stood up fully and looked around the living room. “You know what you could do since you’ve clearly been useless all morning,” he joked while Sam glared. “You could go find the photo albums in Dad’s closet. We’ll need pictures for the funeral, right? That’s something people do.”

Sam nodded. He started organizing the papers back into the folders they had been and he handed the pile of them to Dean.

“Yeah, that’s something people do. I can do that.”

Sam clapped a hand on Dean’s shoulder but neither of them acknowledged how much hurt they were in. They could be strong for each other, even if neither of them felt like they were.

As soon as Sam was down the hallway and into John’s room, Dean brought his hands up to his eyes and pressed until he saw white spots in his vision; he wouldn’t cry then; he couldn’t put that on Sammy right now and he had work to do. He took a deep breath and he picked up the drawer Sam had pulled out to look through and went to put it back where it was meant to be.

It was something he could do.

***

Cas was at a loss for what he should be doing. He went to class as he was supposed to, and he did his assignments as he was supposed to, and he even did his freelance work as he was supposed to, but he felt as though they were the least important things he could be spending time on. He hadn’t been able to get the utter despair of the look in Dean’s eyes from the other night out of his mind. His friend was deservedly taking a few days away from school to arrange for his father’s funeral‒ which was the next morning‒ and Cas had been writing the assignments in poetry down for him and had even found out Dean’s complete schedule to get assignments from all his classes, but it didn’t seem enough. 

If he were honest with himself, he knew that part of that was because of how terrified he was about the funeral. He had no idea how he was going to be expected to behave, since he’d never met John Winchester despite the time he'd spent at the shop, and Dean would want to be with his brother. Before, it would have been easy for Cas to attend a funeral and express his sympathies and give reassurances and platitudes about the soul being at rest and home with the Lord, and while he greatly still wanted to believe that, and he still did some days, he knew that that would never work for Dean. It would do nothing but make the man angry and of all the reactions he did not want, anger was one of them.

Cas trudged upstairs and looked at his closet, mentally running through his clothing for an appropriate outfit for the morning and settling on all black with a cerulean tie‒ _Dean likes blue, doesn’t he?_ And he hoped desperately that just being there would be enough of a comfort to Dean. It was his only option: hope.

*******

The funeral flew by. Old friends of John’s, ex-marine buddies, tattoo artists he’d worked for before, strangers who said they’d known him in some way or another, came to Dean and Sam and expressed sympathy and seemed sincere, but Dean barely noticed. He mostly nodded and let Sam give thanks for the both of them.

Whatever the pastor had said in his sermon must have been meaningful, even though he’d never met John‒ who’d stopped going to church after Vietnam and then again after Mary died and she wasn’t around to convince him to attend‒ since it had set Sam to tears. Dean wasn’t sure whether he’d actually been crying the entire time or not, but he didn’t really care either way. As far as he was concerned, this whole show was for the benefit of someone else, because listening to people talk about his dad while he stared at the urn his cremated remains were in seemed hollow to him. John would have been happy with the boys having a select few people by the house and drinking a bottle of whiskey in his memory; Dean would have been happier with that too.

But he did notice when those select few people were there; Ellen and Jo Harvelle had come, Jim Murphy had come all the way down from Minnesota, Deacon Hansen had come from Arkansas. Charlie was there, tears in her eyes, sitting right next to Sam and Dean. Jess, Sam’s girlfriend, had flown in for the weekend and sat next to him. And Cas was there. He was a quiet presence in the back of the room and Dean had no idea why, but him being there was more helpful than he would have ever thought. While everyone else was asking for his attention, trying to reminisce about John or offer help, nigh demanding that Sam or Dean call if they needed anything, Cas didn’t approach Dean until nearly everyone had cleared out.

“Dean, do we know that guy?” Sam finally asked once he was done helping Jess put on her coat. She was just about Sam’s height in the heels she had on and somewhere in the back of Dean’s mind, he knew that if he’d met her under different circumstances, he’d love her already. As it was, he didn’t feel much. About anything, really.

Dean didn’t even have to look to know that he meant Cas. He nodded at his brother. He didn’t elaborate at all when Sam cocked an eyebrow in question.

“Do you want some alone time? I can go pay the pastor if you do. Wait for you in the car. Do you want me to drive?” Sam’s voice was gentle, and it was grating on Dean’s nerves, because if he had to hear it anymore he knew the dam would absolutely burst and no amount of stoicism would keep him from absolutely blubbering.

“Yeah, Sammy. Sounds like a plan. I’m gonna talk to Cas and then I’ll be out there.”

Sam clutched Dean into a brief but fierce hug and Dean didn’t even really have time to get his arms up to return it. Sam gave him a nod and  Jess smiled shyly at him and touched his arm as the two of them walked out hand in hand. It was only then that Cas came forward, his footsteps somehow both echoing loudly and seemingly silent.

Dean and Cas simply stood next to each other for a moment, Dean with his head bowed. He could still see out of his peripheral that Cas was watching him patiently. Dean finally took a deep breath and brought his head up to look at his friend.

“Thanks for coming.” Dean’s voice was flat as he said it and then he let out a pained laugh. “That’s the kind of shit you say at these things right?”

Cas’ heart broke for Dean even more than it had been before. He’d noticed that Dean’d been dry-eyed during the funeral and it had been more concerning than him crying, but now that tears sprung to Dean’s eyes and he made no move to wipe them away as they trailed down his face, Cas reconsidered his thought.

“Dean, I…” Cas trailed off; nothing he could say would make this hurt better for Dean. He took two steps closer and wrapped a hand around Dean’s wrist. Dean stilled.

“There is nothing I can say that will change how badly this hurts, Dean, and we both know it. I wish it weren’t so. I could tell you what the bible says of death and how we should behave, but I won’t.”

Dean gritted his teeth and Cas tightened his grip on his wrist. He pulled him so that they were facing each other.  Dean met his eyes.

“I will simply tell you that you do not have to do this alone.”

Dean nodded, almost unconsciously. Cas knew that he wasn’t really hearing him and taking it to heart. He would try to do this as alone as possible and keep from burdening anyone else. If Cas knew anything about his friend by this point, it was that. His mouth turned into a slight frown. He tugged on his wrist then until Dean focused again. The green of his eyes stood out starkly with his tears. Cas’ chest ached.

He made a move to speak and Dean cut him off, looking away again.

“Thanks, Cas. I appreciate you being here. It means‒”

“Dean, stop.” Cas’ tone was demanding and Dean looked back up. It stayed gently commanding as he went on, “Don’t give me those platitudes. Go home, spend time with your brother and whoever else is there. Tell stories about your father, get drunk. Cry. Or you could behave like a sociopath and feel nothing.”

Dean scoffed, finally out of the reverie he’d been in. He rolled his eyes before he gave a still tearful smirk at Cas. Cas gave him a smile back. It flitted across his face and left just as quickly.

“Then tomorrow night, after you have dinner with your family, where you don’t drink any more than one beer, you come to my house.”

His tone brooked no argument and Dean found himself nodding his acceptance. Cas still had Dean’s wrist and he squeezed one more time, this time in assurance.

“I will take care of you if you want me to, Dean. Just tell me to. I need to hear you say it.”

Dean nodded again and he licked his lips. Clearing his throat, he said, “Yeah. Uh, yes, I want you to help me, Cas.”

Cas dropped Dean’s wrist and nodded to him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow night, then. 8:30. Go, spend time with Sam. Having someone does help in a situation like this.”

Cas didn’t wait for Dean to say anything more, because he saw the way his lips were tightening, and he turned to walk out of the funeral parlor. He hugged his coat closer around him and willed himself not to turn around and make sure that Dean was alright. He would do all he could for Dean, and it wouldn’t be anything conventional; it wasn’t what he needed.


	8. Chapter 8

Dean did exactly as Cas asked. He couldn’t have done anything else even if he wanted to.

He’d joined Sam and Jess in the Impala, stretching out in the backseat and letting his head rest against the cool window.

“He fucking loved this car,” he’d said after a moment of silent driving. “Couldn’t believe when he gave it to me, man. I always wanted it, but I never ever expected I’d get it until he was gone.” _It’d be mine now,_ was left unsaid, and Dean’d tried to clamp down on the part of his brain that had supplied the thought.

Sam caught Dean’s eye in the mirror and looked away back to the road as soon as he could. “He knew how much you loved this car too.”

“She’s a good car,” Dean said, trying to keep it light. Sam caught his eye again and they shared a wavering smile.

“She is.”

The rest of their ride home was silent, but not oppressively so. They’d all three gotten into the foyer to hang their coats up when Sam stopped chewing his lip enough to speak.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I told a few people they could come here for a while if they wanted to. Jess and I went and picked up cold cuts and stuff like that yesterday while you were busy.” Dean hadn’t had a chance to speak before Sam was going on, asking Dean’s forgiveness almost. “It’s really just probably going to be Jo and Ellen and Charlie and maybe Jim. I just thought‒”

“Sammy,” Dean started and he put his hands on his brother’s arms, “That’s fine. Especially if it’ll help you.”

Dean’d pulled Sam into a hug before he could do anything else. Even though Sam had had four inches (five, if anyone asked Sam) on him for years now, Dean still stood up onto his tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his brother’s temple.

“I love you, brother. I’d do anything for you.” 

Sam had tears in his eyes when they let go of each other. “Dean‒”

“I’m not keeping these dress clothes on though,” Dean cut him off. He went for a cheap laugh and got no response, but was heading toward his room without waiting for one. He passed John’s room on the way and he couldn’t take his eyes off the emptiness of it. He and Sam had been in and out of the room all week, getting things together and trying to ready things and it already no longer looked like John had lived in it with the way they’d had to change things. But there was still a photo of the three of them‒ John, Dean, and Sam‒ on the bedside table.

It wasn’t a good picture; it was a Polaroid someone‒ maybe their Uncle Bobby, who’d been gone years now, too – had snapped right at the wrong time. Dean’s eyes were closed and his face scrunched up in a laugh and Sam’s mouth was wide open in one as well. They had to be only nine and five, ten and six maybe, but it was forever captured in celluloid. John looked happy in the photo, looking at his boys with a grin of his own on his face, and that grin was how Dean wanted to picture John for the rest of the day, no matter what stories people brought up.

****

Cas tried to go about his business as though nothing had happened; he finished his assignments for the weekend and worked on his senior research project and contacted his co-editor of the creative writing publication for the school about the printer’s latest correspondence. But in the back of his mind he was thinking about Dean and the expression he’d worn on his face every time Cas had been able to see it at the funeral.

Cas’d known that what he was starting to feel for his friend was too much for a while. He hadn’t had many close friends growing up, preferring to spend his time with his family and the comfortable, conservative world they’d built for each other, and even as he grew older, he didn’t make good friends with very many people. It was difficult with his background and his age and the terrifying ways his old life came to rush him on occasion. But that lack of deep friendships had rarely bothered him. Now that he had been spending so much time with Dean, that he’d been spending such a good time with Dean, it felt strange to be by himself on a Friday evening knowing that he shouldn’t text him for his opinion about the movie he was trying to watch on TV. The movie was less interesting without the text commentary and Cas turned it off after only fifteen minutes.

Instead, he got up from his couch with a soft groan and stretched out his back. He idly wondered when the next time he could get to his favorite instructor’s yoga class, mentally hearing the scolding Lisa would give him for having gotten out of the habit, as he crossed to his bookshelf. He ran a finger along the spines as he looked through them for something to read, needing the tactile sensation to remember how many worlds existed there, despite what was happening in this one.

His fingers stopped over Siken, but he shook his head and moved on until he was at a well-worn copy of Donne’s completed works. For nearly six months straight, Cas had read from that book daily. He could not find his faith in anything else, and it had helped him stay strong on the path he’d embarked upon to read the “Holy Sonnets” and then any Donne, really. Even if eventually even it wasn’t enough, some pages were nearly transparent in their wear and Cas could hear the rhythm of the poems from the very first word read. Tonight, that familiarity, and the aching sensation of its loss that came with it, was exactly what he needed.

He fell asleep with the book on his lap and his shoulders curled in on themselves, wondering if this was his true remaking.

When he awoke in the nearly still dark hours of the morning, he felt as if he would need to be remade, with the crick in his neck and the fact that his one leg was asleep from being shoved halfway beneath the back couch cushion. He stumbled as he stood up and let Donne fall closed onto the floor. He felt a vague sense of regret about the treatment of the book, but not enough to stop and pick it up on his way upstairs to his bed where he should have spent the night.

When he woke up the second time, it was at a later hour than he had in years. He knew, as he rubbed his eyes getting down the stairs, that anything he tried to do productively that day would be accompanied by a mental clock counting down the moments until Dean would be there. Yet, he still tried.

He managed to plan out his menu for the week and go grocery shopping, getting only one thing that wasn’t on his list, and read and analyze two more important passages of St. Augustine’s _Confessions,_ only having to refocus on what he was reading twice. There were moments where he lost himself in his work, as he always had done, but they were brief and after having stared at a blank page on his computer screen for over half hour, he was glad when he realized it was 7 o’clock and he needed to start preparing for Dean.

Once he had showered, Cas was methodical in his preparations, focusing on perfecting each task: his bed sheets were free of wrinkles and practically had hospital corners and he had made sure they were the most luxurious ones he owned; his nails were trimmed evenly and cleaned and he spent more time shaving than he had since he had hit puberty; his stash of condoms and lubricants were laid out on his dresser and he’d hung an assortment of ties over the headboard. Cas had a rather specific plan and he was trying not to think about what he would do if Dean was against it, because the only reaction he could come up with was abject horror over his own embarrassment and possibly cutting all ties to his life as much as possible again. He didn’t see that happening.

He also didn’t see Dean being early, but he was. It was only 8:05 when he heard the doorbell ring. He’d just lifted his dinner fork to his mouth and he chewed the chicken he’d made, which now tasted like sand because of his sudden spike in nerves, as he walked to the door. He was still chewing when he opened the door and saw Dean standing there sheepishly. He had a bottle of wine in his hands, held in front of him. Cas cocked an eyebrow.

“I know I’m early, and I know you said I should only have one beer, but bringing somebody wine when you come to their house is a thing, right?”

It was then that Cas noticed Dean was wearing what for him was fairly nice clothes: black jeans with a sports coat thrown over a plain white t-shirt. Even the plugs in his ears, some sort of marble looking maroon stones, looked expensive. Dean must have felt Cas’ eyes on his outfit, because he blushed just a bit.

“Sam and Jess were convinced I had a date and they wouldn’t let me change from dinner.” He ran a hand over his face and looked back up at Cas with a sigh. “The wine was also their idea, so I’m really sorry. Can I come in?”

Cas opened the door wider and let Dean come in. Dean made to hand him the wine and he shook his head. Instead, he followed Cas into the kitchen and held a hand up in question.

“There’s a corkscrew in the second drawer left of the sink if the bottle needs it,” Cas said as he sat back down. “Since you’re early we might as well have a glass and discuss some things.”

Cas didn’t bat an eye at how taken aback Dean seemed to be by his formal tone, and he continued to eat his chicken and steamed vegetables. He just pointed at the cabinet his wine glasses were held in and he thumbed through the notes he had been looking at when he started dinner. Dean didn’t say anything as he set the bottle of wine and two glasses down on the table; he merely paused before he poured wine into the second glass until Cas gave a nearly imperceptible nod that he should do so.

Cas scanned to the end of the page, not tasting any of the food he was eating and not retaining any of the information he was trying to catch up on, but he was intimately aware of where Dean’s eyes were on his body and where Dean’s feet were in relation to his and what Dean was touching on the table. Finally he told himself he could shut the notebook and pay attention to Dean the way he wanted to.

“First, are you alright? Tell me honestly.”

“I’m fine,” Dean said, no sincerity in his voice at all. With a disbelieving stare from Cas, Dean deflated in his chair, the tension draining from him. “No. No, I’m not really okay but there’s nothing I can do about it, except maybe get drunk.”

“No getting drunk. Not tonight.” Cas shook his head with a frown on his face as he said it. Dean took that moment to take a drink from his wine glass, draining half of it.

“Okay. Is that what you wanted to discuss?” Dean asked. He sounded a little surly or a little miffed and somehow Cas thought that was adorable. He couldn’t help but smile with fondness at Dean.

“No. What I wanted to discuss was an idea you brought up the last time you were here.”

Dean’s hand paused with his glass raised halfway to his lips. He looked at Cas, locked his eyes on him, and then set the glass back down without taking the drink he wanted. Cas didn’t tease him any longer.

“You said you wanted me to tell you what to do,” he started. He saw disappointment flash in Dean’s eyes, and plunged ahead. “I want to know if you still want that and if there’s a particular context for it.” Cas took in Dean’s face and went on again. “And you can’t say that you don’t know, Dean. This will only work if you talk to me. If you don’t, then what happened the other night can’t ever happen again and you can finish your wine and leave and I’ll see you on Tuesday in class if you’re coming back this week.”

Cas hadn’t meant to sound so passionate about it, but this was too important for him to let Dean slip through taking care of it. He must have gotten through to him,

Dean looked considering, nibbling on the inside of his lower lip and running his fingertip around the bottom of his wine glass without looking up at Cas. Cas speared a piece of cauliflower on his fork and popped it into his mouth as he waited for an answer, trying to exude a sense of calm he didn’t actually feel. If Dean said no…

“I still want you to tell me what to do, yes.” Cas held back a sigh of relief. “And I don’t know what you mean by context.”

“Well,” Cas began, pushing his plate away from him, “the biggest question, I suppose, is whether or not that’s still a sexual request. And if it is, is it only a sexual request?” Cas’ heart was beating so loudly that he was shocked Dean couldn’t hear it.

Dean nodded slowly. “It’s a sexual request, yes.” He sounded mocking as Cas arched an eyebrow sharply. “I mean,” Dean backtracked, looking guilty, “I just don’t know what other kind of request it would be? I don’t want you to like, plan my meals or tell me what to wear or any of that other Maggie Gyllenhall, _Secretary,_ type crap, no.”

Cas looked shocked and Dean finished his glass of wine before responding to it. “Charlie made me watch it with her, and neither of us knew what we were getting into. But yeah, I want you to tell me what to do in bed. Hell, if you can tell me how to get through life trying to stay in class and take care of myself and Sammy and run a business and not fucking hurt so much, you can tell me anything else, too. Is that what you wanted to hear?  Is this discussion done now?”

If he were a different sort of man, perhaps a stronger one, perhaps a weaker one, that would have been when he told Dean that no, the discussion wasn’t done but they were before they’d ever really gotten started. As it was, Cas just narrowed his eyes and let his face harden.

“Dean, I’m not done with my dinner. I think it’s best if you put the bottle of wine in the fridge and then wait in the living room until I am, hmm?” He phrased it like a question, but there was none in his voice. Dean still looked pissed as he got up and grabbed the wine bottle to put away. “And the glass in the sink.”

Dean’s lips pursed even further, but he still complied. Cas gave him a small, still cold, smile and turned back to his dinner, hyper-aware of Dean’s footfalls as he walked to the living room.

Cas didn’t even pick up his fork. He took a sip of his wine‒ it was too sweet for his liking if he were honest‒ and then counted to ten. Then he counted to ten again, and again. He let two minutes pass by that way and he wondered if Dean were simply sprawled out on the couch on the verge of fast asleep, or if he was working himself up to a frenzy of anger for being made to wait. Cas got up, scraped his plate, and set it in the sink. His hands shook and he steadied them against the cool metal. Taking a deep breath, he turned on his heel and headed to the living room.

Dean, much to Cas’ surprise, was sitting on the couch with the book of Donne poetry in his hands. His eyes roamed over the pages as he flipped through them. It wasn’t until Cas was standing nearly in his space that he looked up wearing a guilty expression.

“It was on the floor and I didn’t know where it went,” he started. Cas stopped him with a shake of his head and by holding out his hand to take the book. Dean nodded and handed it to him. Cas used the time it took to get to the shelf and place the book where it had been to steady himself even further. Dean looked up at him expectantly when he returned. Cas surprised him when he sat down on the couch next to him. Dean’s hand flicked out to rest on Cas’ leg but he pulled it back and Cas’ eyes rose to Dean’s sheepish face.

Cas smiled gently at him, letting the expression flash across his face before he sobered up. “You can touch me if you want to, Dean. Unless I tell you not to.” Cas waited to continue until Dean nodded in understanding. “I’ll need you to tell me exactly what you want when I ask. And if you need to stop for any reason, just say so. I’ll take no as no and stop as stop without a safeword this time.”

Dean goggled and it made Cas chuckle.

“That’s generally how these things work.”

“Weren’t you going to be a priest?” Dean asked incredulously, taken out of the moment. Cas’ eyes flashed.

“And there’s a reason I’m not. Now take off your shirt.”

The mood in the room shifted in a hairpin curve and Dean and Cas both felt it zing through them. Dean made quick work of his shirt and jacket and let it fall to the floor next to the couch. He reached out and curled his hand around Cas' bicep and then waited.

He didn’t wait long before Cas was closing the gap between them and kissing Dean full force without hesitation. Dean groaned into the passion of the kiss and his other hand came up to Cas. Cas’ hands rose to grip Dean’s face and hold him exactly where he wanted him so he could feel every inch of his mouth. Lips slid together and their tongues massaged against each other and Cas overtook control and ran his tongue along Dean’s teeth. He ran his hands down from where Dean’s stubble rubbed against his palms to his shoulders and squeezed.

“Lay down,” Cas breathed into the kiss. He moved a hand again, this time to the center of Dean’s chest, splaying his fingers out wide and his thumb and pinky brushing by his nipples nearly, and pushed to help Dean comply. Dean huffed out a breath when his back hit the cushions and another one came out a moan when Cas followed him down and wrapped his hands around Dean’s wrists. They kept on kissing, their lips slick and warm on each other when they moved from lips to jaws to necks to ears, and Cas pinned Dean’s wrist together above his head.

“Spread your legs,” Cas whispered into Dean’s ear, releasing his ear lobe from between his teeth. Dean maneuvered so that Cas was kneeling between his spread knees. Cas’ knees dug into his thighs, nudging them open even more. “Farther.”

Dean hitched his legs up to get them farther apart and he kissed Cas harder when he lowered himself fully onto Dean so they were groin to groin. Cas rolled his hips down hard, grinding his thickening length against Dean’s hard cock.  Dean rocked up to meet Cas’ thrusts and they rutted against each other, their lips scraping against each other’s jaws and necks between sucking marks onto each other.

Cas was still fully clothed and Dean wanted to remedy that, but he couldn’t move his arms. When he tried to and failed, Cas laughed against him and ground his hips down roughly.

“Do you want something else, Dean? Because I’m wondering if we couldn’t make you come like a teenager in your jeans. Would you like that?”

Dean whined in the back of his throat and shook his head. This felt good, this felt amazing, to just grind against each other at the pace Cas set and not think about anything other than the low hum of pleasure coiling inside, but Dean wanted, needed more. “Please, no,” he said between breaths as Cas bit into his throat, just hard enough that Dean wanted to grit his teeth and still rock his hips up for more friction. “I want more.”

Cas sat halfway up, his crotch still pressing against Dean. His hands finally let Dean’s wrists go, but Dean didn’t move. He cocked an eyebrow and looked down at Dean.

“You’ve got to ask, Dean.”

“I want you to fuck me,” he said without hesitating. He amended what he’d said without prompting. “Please. Please, fuck me, Cas.”

 Cas smiled, a little bit cruelly, and slid off the couch.

“Take your pants off and go upstairs to my room. And don’t rush; I want to see you.”

Dean’s flush hid how he blushed at Cas’ words, but Cas saw his nerves come out in the slight shakiness of his breath as he undid his jeans. The bow of his legs was so pronounced now that the two of them weren’t rushing to touch each other in Cas’ kitchen. Cas wanted to lick the freckles he saw exposed as Dean discarded his boxers. Dean hesitated before he turned around and headed upstairs and Cas’ eyes bore into his retreating form, leaving trails of heat everywhere they roamed.

Cas folded Dean’s clothes once he was up the stairs and waited to follow until Dean would have taken in all the surroundings. Cas tried not to let himself slip into a different headspace, one that wouldn’t allow him to follow through with this; he wanted Dean and Dean needed him to do this and he wouldn’t back down from it out of self-pity. If Dean needed someone else to have control, Cas would take it, and that thought goaded Cas into a steady pace up the stairs to his room, where Dean was standing at the foot of the bed. His hands had been in front of him, but as soon as Cas entered the room, he moved them, allowing himself to be on display.

“Touch yourself,” Cas ordered. “Get yourself completely hard and make yourself feel good. But don’t come.”

One of Dean’s hands circled his cock and he began to stroke, slowly, twisting his palm over the head when he got there. He never looked away from Cas’ eyes, even when Cas leaned back against the opposite wall and began to disrobe. Dean’s cock was fully hard again by the time Cas got down to his boxers. Cas palmed at his own erection through the cloth and Dean bit his lip and brought his other hand down to cup his balls. He fondled them and kept stroking his dick and precome leaked from the tip as Cas took in the sight of him.

“Cas, please,” Dean breathed out on one particularly slow drag. Cas stepped out of his underwear finally and stepped closer to Dean. Dean stopped moving.

“I didn’t tell you to stop, Dean.”

Dean groaned and started up again, his pace quicker. Cas brought a hand up and ran his thumb across Dean’s bottom lip where he’d been biting it. Dean’s tongue darted out and tasted the flesh of the digit and Cas stopped in his ministrations, letting his thumb go still so Dean could suck it into his mouth. Cas couldn’t look away even though he felt Dean’s hand speed up again where he was jacking himself.

“Stop.”

Dean immediately dropped his hands with a whine and let Cas’ thumb pop from his mouth.

“Good,” Cas told him with a smile, “if you hadn’t stopped I was going to have to tie your hands and it would make what we’re about to do much harder on you.”

Dean’s throat bobbed as he swallowed and Cas’ smile turned into a smirk. He leaned in and placed kisses along the column of Dean’s neck.

“Would you prefer to be on your back or on your knees?” Dean’s eyes widened and so did Cas’ smirk. “You asked me to fuck you. You didn’t say how. And sluts who beg don’t get to choose, Dean.”

Cas hadn’t misread Dean’s reaction to the slur the other night; it made him whimper again.

“So you’re lucky I’m asking you even this. So, do you want your face fucked while on your knees or on your back?”

Dean licked his lips. “Knees.” Cas raised an eyebrow and Dean licked his lips again. “I’d rather be on my knees when you fuck my mouth, Cas.”

Cas nodded and placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder, and pushed. Dean sank to the ground and spread his legs wide to get low and look up at Cas. Cas moved his hand from his shoulder to trace his jaw and press against the bolt of it until Dean opened up. His other hand closed around the base of his cock and he guided it to Dean’s waiting mouth. He ran the head of it against Dean’s tongue, holding back a moan at the way Dean’s piercing felt.

“Close your mouth and suck me, Dean.”

Dean did it with a moan, running his tongue around the glans and sucking as much of Cas’ dick into his mouth as he could. He brought a hand up to circle what he couldn’t fit as he bobbed enthusiastically. Cas couldn’t stop staring at the way Dean’s lips looked stretched wide around him, plush and soft and red. He cupped a hand around Dean’s head and pressed his fingertips into his scalp. He let Dean control the pace for only a moment, a moment where Dean teased him mercilessly with his tongue ring, before he thrust himself farther into his mouth. He saw Dean’s eyes flutter shut in pleasure and he did it again.

Cas fucked Dean’s mouth in earnest until spit leaked from his mouth down onto his chin. The heat of him and the way he just took it made Cas never want to stop. It made him want to push his cock down Dean’s throat until he would swallow his come, but he had other plans. Dean had asked Cas to fuck him, and Cas would. With one last brutal thrust in, one where Dean gagged a little, Cas pulled out with a wet pop.

“You look so good like this, I didn’t want to stop. You did so good for me,” Cas told Dean, running a hand through his hair. He let Dean bask in the praise for a beat of time and then went on. “Get on the bed.”

Dean scrambled to his feet and onto the bed, getting on his hands and knees again.

“No, get on your back. I want to see you as you get fucked.”

Dean turned around and his cheeks were red, but he laid down. He never took his eyes off Cas as Cas went to the dresser and grabbed a condom and a bottle of lube. Dean was biting his lip in desire when Cas crawled onto the bed and swatted his legs open to kneel between them.

“I’m going to tie your arms to this headboard and fuck your ass until you want to scream.”

He said it without question and Dean nodded vehemently.

“Please.”

Cas took his time selecting a tie, his body draped over Dean’s as he reached. There was just enough pressure against his cock to drive Dean crazy. Cas trailed the ends of the ties down Dean’s body as he moved to bring Dean’s arms up one at a time to tie them tightly to the slats of the headboard. He checked the security of them as though he were unaffected, but the sight of Dean bound to his bed was damn near melting his brain. He felt his cock leaking precome.

Cas couldn’t stop himself from leaning down and kissing Dean deeply. He felt Dean strain his arms as though he wanted to pull Cas closer, down to him so they could grind on each other again or make Cas fuck him finally.

Cas backed off and sat up. He flipped the top of the lube open and squirted some onto his fingers. He brought his hand to Dean’s balls and began to massage behind them, teasingly. He moved slowly back until he was just rubbing over Dean’s hole. Dean moaned and spread his legs farther apart, his knees up and feet planted on the bed. He moaned even louder when Cas brought his other hand to circle Dean’s cock and stroked. Cas twisted his wrist when he got to the head and pushed a finger into Dean.

Dean’s back arched and his shoulders strained where he was tied down.

Cas’ grip around Dean’s cock loosened so it was barely a tease as he fucked one finger in and out of Dean, pushing farther in on every thrust. He brushed at Dean’s prostate and made him keen. He didn’t make him ask before he pushed a second finger in as well, going deep and pressing his spot again. Cas scissored his fingers apart as he fucked them into Dean, stretching his hole in preparation. Dean was panting as Cas kept thrusting his fingers in and out of his slick entrance.

Dean whined when Cas pulled his fingers out.

“I want you to be able to feel every inch of my cock sliding into you, Dean. Can’t loosen you up too much,” Cas told him before he leaned down and kissed him hard. He nipped at Dean’s bottom lip when he pulled back. He tore open a condom and rolled it on easily all while Dean’s hips were twitching up in anticipation. “Put your legs on my shoulders.”

Dean moaned when he did and Cas’s cock was pressed against his hole. His moaning turned into him holding his breath as Cas pushed in torturously slow. Dean could feel every inch of Cas’ dick stretching him open and it felt amazing. Cas bottomed out and Dean let his breath go and he tried to move. Cas caught his ankles and turned to bite at the instep of his foot.

“I’ll do the work. You take it and let me make you feel good. You want to feel good, don’t you?” Dean tried to nod but Cas snapped his hips back and forward harshly, lighting up Dean’s nerve endings. “Just on your back with your legs up, wanting to get fucked, like a good slut.”

Cas set a brutal speed, hips moving at a machine-like pace and hitting Dean’s prostate with every thrust. He still had Dean’s ankles in his hands and he leaned down to suck and bite at the tattoos Dean had on his calves, not even paying attention to what the designs were. He ran his hands down his calves to the back of his knees and he bent them up and pushed Dean’s thighs closer to his chest to change angles.

Dean groaned at the new angle and the fact that he felt his breath being constricted by how his body was contorted. Cas felt so deep inside him, he felt so much fuller and absolutely amazing that he didn’t care about any shortness of breath.

“Do you want to come, Dean?” Cas asked. Dean was nodding and his fists were clenching in their restraints and he was ecstatic when Cas leaned down and kissed him and wrapped a hand around his cock. It was nothing to the absolute supernova that went off in his head when Cas somehow contorted himself and put his mouth around the head of Dean’s cock and was still pumping into his ass.

Dean came with a cry into Cas’ mouth and onto his stomach when Cas pulled off. Dean felt himself seizing up still when Cas’ hips snapped erratically and his cock twitched as he came. Cas collapsed onto Dean, still inside him, and Dean let his legs fall wide. Dean breathed heavy and turned his head to accept the kiss Cas was giving him.

Dean groaned and his hips thrust up again when he tasted that Cas hadn’t swallowed and was feeding his own come back to him. Cas’ tongue massaged Dean’s, distracting him from Cas pulling out of him.

“Swallow,” Cas told him when he back out of the kiss. Dean did so with a nod and Cas brought a hand up to Dean’s throat and caressed it. “God, that was sexy.”

Dean didn’t get a chance to say anything before Cas was kissing him again, licking into his mouth as though he wanted the taste of Dean’s spunk back. It didn’t last nearly as long as Dean would have liked it to.

“Let me untie you and get a washrag to clean us up. Then we’ll rest.”

Dean nodded as Cas worked on the ties around his wrists. “You don’t have to let me sleep here if you don’t want,” he started to say. Cas cut him off with a look. Dean brought his hands down and rubbed at the marks the ties had left when he’d been tugging at them. He waited for Cas to say something. It wasn’t until he was up off the bed and in the bathroom doorway that he did.

“I said ‘rest,’ Dean. That was only round one. I have so much more planned.”


	9. Chapter 9

Sam had to catch a flight to get back to Stanford in 24 hours; he’d been in Kansas for a week and a half and it had been the most depressing spring break he could imagine. Jess had flown back four days earlier at the request of her parents, who’d planned for her to stay with them in San Francisco for her break. They’d been more than understanding about why she was in the middle of Kansas for a few days instead.

But that meant that he and Dean were on their own, trying to sort through John’s things still, even if Dean was dragging his heels about it. He’d been acting as though he could take care of all of it on his own, no matter how often Sam told him he wouldn’t have to. They hadn’t gotten a ton done in the house outside of John's room itself because of Dean’s stubbornness, but they’d moved on to the shop nonetheless.

Sam was sorting through papers in John’s desk, making piles of personal files and professional files and trying not to think too hard about what he was doing. He felt as though he were on autopilot out of necessity. He tried to think of things as objectively as possible, as though he were archiving in the law offices he’d been interning at once a week, but he couldn’t do it like he wanted to. He looked up after a moment to clear his head and his eyes caught on Dean, who was standing by the filing cabinet with one drawer open, a brown folder in his hand, and staring off into space. 

“Find something interesting, Dean?”

Dean didn’t answer; he didn’t even acknowledge that Sam had spoken to him. He simply kept staring off at the exact same spot he had been,

“Dean,” Sam said. When Dean didn’t answer still, he barked his name again. That finally got his attention and he looked at Sam with his eyebrows up. “What are you thinking about?”

“You think you can still wield the machine. Sammy?”

Sam shook his head. “What?”

Dean set the folder down, not filing it, but just setting it on top of the cabinet. His expression was no longer expectant, but earnest. “I said,” he explained slowly, “do you think you can still wield the tattoo machine?”

“I heard what you said, I meant what? Why?” Dean once again didn’t answer his brother and Sam set the papers in his hand down to run a hand through his hair with a sigh. Of course he could still work the machine; John had wanted him and Dean to be the ones to take over the business and it had been an extreme point of contention between them when Sam didn’t want to be part of it. “Yeah, I can still work the tattoo machine probably, why?”

Dean shut the filing cabinet and jerked his head for Sam to follow him out the door. Sam tried not to be annoyed as he did and the two of them walked over to Dean’s workspace. Neither of them had glanced over at John’s space, still crowded with half-finished sketches and an open appointment book. Dean opened up his sketchbook and flipped through the pages until he’d found the drawing he was looking for.

It took up a good portion of the page with its bold black lines of a cage, but what was most noticeable was the bright blue color of the bird within that cage. It was a beautiful drawing, a soft ethereal quality to the bird itself while the cage seemed harsh and locked. Dean had clearly spent a long while finding the same exact shade of blue that would match the inks he had and taken the time to make the bird’s expression melancholy and longing without making it cartoonish. Sam was so busy admiring the full drawing of it that he didn’t see Dean digging through the other papers in his space to find a stencil copy of it.

“I want you to put this on my chest for me,” he said sliding the stencil under Sam’s gaze. Sam’s brows shot up.

“Dean, I can work the machine and do this outline, but I don’t know if I can shade this the way you’d need me to. I don’t know if I can color it with that soft of a hand. The cage, sure, but I don’t know if I can do this bird…”

He trailed off, begging for Dean not to ask this of him with his expression. This drawing obviously meant something special to Dean and no matter how badly Sam might have wanted to be able to do this for his brother, since it mattered, he wasn’t sure he could handle that responsibility. But the look on Dean’s face made him bite his lip and reconsider.

He looked nigh beatific as he laid a hand on Sam’s shoulder and told him, point blank, “Sammy, I trust you. You’re the only person who I’d want to do this.”

Sam nodded his acquiescence and Dean started to strip off his layers of shirts. Part of Sam wanted to screech that he couldn’t do this now, but he knew there weren’t a whole lot of other options.

“You need to reorient yourself with anything?” Dean asked. “Because I want to mix up the blue.” He was giving Sam an out for a minute and they both knew it. Sam gratefully took it, though he picked up the machine and set it up in no time flat. He toyed with the idea of touching up the tattoo he had on his wrist (a simple, small DW he’d put on himself when Dean’d gotten a corresponding SW) as practice, but he knew that this would be like riding a bicycle for him. Instead, he watched as Dean made the exact shade of blue he’d used in the drawing. It was a similar shade of blue to what Sam had on his shoulder blade and it was fascinating to see how much effort went into making the exact color. Dean was meticulous about the work he did for other people, but he was often so lackadaisical in how he took care of himself that it almost surprised Sam that he would be just as precise for this tattoo. Some of the things Dean had let get put on him permanently didn’t help that assumption either; rather, they fed right into it.

“You ready?” Dean asked once he was satisfied with the color. Sam nodded and then jerked his head towards the corner where a table sat folded up. Dean set it up and got it steady and took off the last of his layers so that his torso was bare. Of course, it wasn’t truly bare, as the evidence of years of this business stood out, but Sam could still see the freckles that dotted Dean’s shoulders and chest. Dean held a hand out for the stencil and a pen before he made a move to get onto the table. He’d positioned the stencil right where he wanted it, marking it with four dots of the pen, and then come back to the table and hoisted himself onto it. 

Sam pulled a pair of gloves on and took a deep breath, not sure if he’d ever be ready to begin. When machine buzzed to life and he brought the first mark to Dean’s chest, that worry somehow faded away and everything was reduced to making sure this would be perfect for his brother. If there was anything he could do for him, this would be it.

They didn’t speak through most of the work; only when Sam said he was about to start the coloring did they exchange words, and only long enough for Dean to tell him he wanted to mix up a brown-orange color to put on the chest just a little. Sam didn’t even bat an eye at the change of plan; he’d already figured out exactly what Dean meant and where he’d like it by the time Dean had even gotten the colors down to mix. Sam barely made a noise to indicate where he wanted to put the new color and Dean merely nodded back. The experience’s only other soundtrack was the hum of the machine, the occasional scrape of paper towel against skin, and the synchronized breathing of the Winchesters.

Sam wanted to cry when the tattoo was finished and Dean got up to look in the mirror. The smile Dean gave him shot straight through Sam; he couldn’t tell if he’d helped his brother work something out, or made it easier for him to shut down and that was more terrifying than the trust Dean’d put in him before. Sam tried to smile back, but he quickly turned away and threw his gloves into the trash.

“Thanks, Sammy.” Sam nodded for his brother, a lump in his throat still. “Now, why don’t we forget about this cleaning and go get a beer?”

Dean’s voice sounded steadier than it had all week and Sam couldn’t help but act as though his own heart was thumping hard in his chest. He concentrated so hard on not thinking about exactly how Dean was going to get through all this on his own once he’d boarded the plane back to California, that he missed nearly all of what he had to say at the bar.

It wasn’t until he was in the air that he let himself worry.

****

Dean, Cas thought, was doing a remarkable job of acting as though nothing was happening with him when he was in class. He wore the same slightly annoyed, slightly confused look on his face as he always had, and he treated Cas exactly the same. The only difference Cas noticed that first Thursday after Sam had left was the way Dean winced when he shouldered his bag on at the end of class.

“Are you alright?” Cas asked, concern evident.

A wrinkle appeared in Dean’s forehead. Cas nodded down at Dean’s bag and the expression of bemusement left Dean’s face. “Oh, that. Yeah, I’m fine. I just got a new piece. Sammy did it for me before he left. Forgot that the bag rubbing against it wouldn’t be too good.”

“Oh,” Cas said in surprise, “may I ask what it is? And I didn’t know Sam could tattoo.”

“He just didn’t wanna do it forever. But Dad made him learn before he could really say no.”

Cas nodded in understanding; he’d learned Bible verses before he learned how to write his own name. He didn’t ask what the tattoo was again. At the mention of John, Cas didn’t really know where to take the conversation. Fortunately, Dean took over.

“Do you wanna get a beer or something? I still don’t feel like I can open the shop up yet and I don’t really want to do any homework.”

Cas nodded, knowing that there was no way that Dean wanted to be alone in his house now that Sam had gone back to California.

“When do you think you will be ready to open up the shop again?” Cas asked as they walked out of the building. Another cold spell had descended upon Kansas and it only seemed fitting.

Dean shrugged. “Soon, probably. And then I’ll have to look at maybe hiring another artist. I don’t think I can handle the number of clients we had just on my own. But I don’t know who’ll be able to do things the way my dad could have. I’ve got a lot of shit to think about and try to take care of.”

Cas nodded again. He wished there was some way he could lessen the burden for Dean. He wished that there was something he could do that would make this all easier for him, but all he could do was what he was asked. He could sit and talk about nothing important and drink beer and listen to Dean wax on about Bad Company or Bob Seger while in the car and hear him tell stories about things he and Sam had gotten into as children that had gotten John on their hides at the bar. He could smile when Dean needed him to and laugh and take care of him the only way it was possible to take care of someone you loved: by trying to show that.

Because that was what this was, Cas couldn’t deny it anymore. He loved Dean. He hadn’t meant to, but he couldn’t stop now.

Castiel Milton was in love with Dean Winchester and even though he knew it was going to break his heart, he wished there was a way he could sit in this gas-guzzling car of his and be with him for the rest of the night, if not forever.

But he didn’t. Dean dropped him off at his house with a smile and a ‘thanks’ and a ‘see you tomorrow?’ and Cas watched as the car left with Dean in it.

The Impala’s taillights had barely faded when Cas went into his house, grabbed his car keys and headed out again. He was moving with only the shape of a thought in his head. It wasn’t fully formed until he was parked in front of St. David’s Catholic Church and the car was idling. He willed himself to shut the car off and go in.

He hadn’t been in a church since he left seminary and he felt his hands shaking as he reached the doors. He idly wondered if he might not burst into flames upon entrance. He pulled the door open and stepped inside.

Nothing happened.

It was a lovely, though plain, church. The stained glass windows behind the altar weren’t overly large and threw patches of color onto the floor with the last of the day’s sunrays hitting them. The altar was draped with purple and for a moment, Cas tried to run through what part of the year it was that purple was supposed to represent; it could have been Easter that Sunday for all he could remember right then. Far too many other things had been going on.

Cas was the sole person in the church, though there were prayer candles flickering. Before he went to them, he dipped his fingertips in the basin of holy water and made the sign of the cross. He lit a candle, thinking of Dean. He lit another thinking of everyone else affected by John’s death as well.

He moved to the front of the church and knelt before the altar. He crossed his hands and supplicated himself. He began to speak and had no idea where it was going to end up. But he knew that he had something to say. The words felt raw coming out of his mouth but he pushed through it.

“Oh, Lord, I know that it has been a long time since I have come to you. I am not sure that you would even like to hear from me. I’m no longer even sure if you are even there. But I come to you because my friend is in pain.

“You saw fit to take his father away, and I know that your will is your will and we all must bury our parents if things go according to your plan, but I want to help him. I want to help him get through this pain and I do not know how.”

Cas heaved a deep breath. He felt tears pricking at the back of his eyes and bowed his head further trying to stop them from forming. Speaking frank in a place of worship like this exposed him like a raw nerve. It was the pleasure of biting down on an aching tooth and it felt as though he were breaking. He had to count to 100 and steady his breathing before he could go on.

“Loving him isn’t enough. I know that many think you would not approve of a man loving another man, but I don’t believe that. Even if you don’t approve, I don’t care. I want to be able to help him and love isn’t enough and I have never not come to you for real guidance. I don’t know what to do.”

Cas stopped himself before he went on any further. This was of no use; he wasn’t even sure that it was making him feel better. It might have been making him feel even worse, if he were honest with himself. There would be no sign from God that told him what to do. God would not speak to him solely to help him comfort Dean Winchester. God would not speak to him to keep him in his fold those years ago, so this would warrant no response either.

But as Cas stood up, he looked at the prayer candles once more, and was filled with awe at the devotion people still showed, with the way they still cared, and his spirits were lifted for it. He didn’t need a message from God to tell him that he could love Dean. That was what had sent him here, if he looked into himself and were honest. All he could do was love Dean.

Cas didn’t stay any longer in the church. He walked down the aisle and out the door to his car. Only when he was turning the ignition did he catch sight of the bulletin in front.

‘1 PETER 4:8 ABOVE ALL LOVE EACH OTHER DEEPLY FOR LOVE COVERS OVER A MULTITUDE OF SINS’

And even though one of the ‘L’s on the sign was made from an upside down seven, maybe that was a good enough sign for Cas.

****

Cas had felt the warmth of Salvation Ink the very first time he’d stepped into the shop and looked around at the art on the walls. Now, being there with Dean and Charlie trying to help them straighten things out before they could open back up within the next two days, none of that warmth was there. In fact, there was so much tension that Charlie and Cas were mostly standing awkwardly near the couches in the front while Dean rifled through papers in the front filing cabinets cursing.

“Why the fuck did he have so much fucking paper? Do we really need the records from ten years ago?” Dean slammed the cabinet closed with a clang. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration and it stuck up. “He kept records for clients that I know for a fact are dead. He was making it a damn fire hazard.”

“Dean,” Cas started. He stopped as soon as Dean looked up at him, his mouth a flat line of annoyance.

“How do you want us to help fix it?” Charlie asked. She’d already asked him what he wanted them to do three times now, but she wasn’t backing down. They were here to help, no matter how little Dean admitted he wanted and needed it. Before Dean could tell her anything, she cut him off, knowing what he was going to say. “What can we do that won’t require your express supervision of organization?”

Agitation had crept into Charlie’s voice and she was barely attempting to conceal it.

Dean looked like he wanted to say something, and opened his mouth to do so, but he didn’t. He closed his mouth and chewed at his lip for a moment, looking down at his hands where they were clenched. He shoved them into his pockets and he looked up.

“I don’t know.” The anger had left him and now he was just deflated. Cas could feel Charlie soften beside him as well, the tension in her spine melting.

“There’s a lot to do, Dean, yes,” Cas spoke up. “And your input is needed for all of it, but not right now.”

Dean looked hurt and Cas sighed. He continued to try to ameliorate that hurt.

“You said before that you wanted to clear your father’s station and move some of your things into the office.” Cas felt like he was stabbing Dean right in the heart having to say those things, but he pressed on. “You also want to sort through those records. Which of those things can Charlie and I do?”

Charlie glanced over at Cas before her eyes flicked back to Dean. Cas just looked at Dean with patience. Finally Dean made a sound of disgust and threw his hands up.

“I don’t fucking know, Cas. I don’t fucking know.”

Cas nodded. “Fine.  Charlie and I will start to clear out John’s station. We’ll just move things into his office and you can decide what to do with it from there.”

Cas didn’t wait for Dean to respond, just aimed for John’s area and hoped that Charlie would follow him. She did and he didn’t hear any protests from Dean even with the first creak of a personal cabinet door opening.

“Why don’t you put some music on?” Cas called over his shoulder. It wasn’t ten seconds later and Eric Clapton was playing rather softly through the shop. Cas turned back to the task at hand to Charlie goggling at him. He raised an eyebrow politely.

“I can’t believe he just let you make a decision about this.”

“He knows someone has to,” Cas responded without venom. He felt rather than saw Charlie’s shrug of concession. Cas’ voice was quieter when he explained. “I think it makes it easier for him if someone else does.”

Cas started pulling things out of the cupboard John kept; there were pieces of scrap paper with doodles on them, business cards with different phone numbers, a few full sketchpads, things that seemed perfectly normal to keep at a tattoo work station. But then there were other things and Cas tried to keep a straight face. He couldn’t though. His eyes softened at the child’s drawing of a big black car going down an equally as black road with a dark haired man driving. Two stick figure boys had been added last minute to the back seat. It was marked “to Dad love Sam” in blocky handwriting.

“I wonder if Sam knew,” Charlie said just above a whisper. “I mean, John saw Dean’s art work every day. The fact that he might have seen Sam’s, too…”

She chewed on her thumb nail as she trailed off. She explained without Cas having to ask.

“I don’t know if Dean’s ever told you about how complicated John and Sam’s relationship was. He likes to pretend it never happened and they’ve always been a happy family to most people, but when Sam left for college‒”

“John didn’t talk to him. Didn’t want Dean to either,” Cas interrupted. “He told me, Charlie.”

She nodded and looked away again. Cas laid a hand on her arm gently and held up the drawing.

He caught Charlie’s eye. “You should send this to him. Tell him. He’d want to know, wouldn’t he?”

Charlie nodded and set the drawing aside from the pile they were making on the small-backed stool John had used to work from. It didn’t take them much longer to clear out the rest of the things in there and they both thought that most of it would be junk to Dean, though they wouldn’t dare say so.

They would have to get started on John’s actual equipment, which Charlie would have to be in charge of. Cas was standing up and expected Charlie to do so as well, but she was still crouched down.

“Charlie?”

“I thought I’d be better at this, you know? I mean, I don’t feel like I’m helping Dean at all.” She didn’t let Cas protest. “You’d think the girl with dead parents would be able to help him grieve more.”

Cas looked down and over at her sharply, with hurt for her flashing in his eyes. Charlie heaved a sigh and stood up finally. She caught Cas’ eye.

“But I just keep thinking that if I tell him the truth it won’t help.” She grabbed the drawing they’d set aside and she didn’t tell him what that truth was before she walked back to the front of the shop where Dean was still sorting through papers, though now he was quiet.

Cas picked up the pile they’d made and went to set it on the desk in the office. _John’s desk_ was what he’d been thinking of it as, but he knew it no longer was. Soon it would be Dean’s desk, but Cas doubted Dean would ever be able to think of it that way. Cas mused idly that Dean might just set fire to the thing instead of having to admit that John was never coming back to claim it. He grimaced as the thought came.

He gave himself a moment on his own when he got into the office. He told himself it was for Charlie and Dean, but he couldn't always keep up his own understanding around Dean right now. He was trying and God, did he want to, but he couldn't help but to just want his friend back in so many ways. It wasn't fair of him, and he asked anyone who might be listening to forgive him for it, but he couldn't stop himself. Dean was making everyone walk on eggshells around him and it was hard.

It was made harder only by the fact that Dean clearly didn't want any of the sympathy or any of the help that was coming his way. To anyone who knew him at all though, he needed it; that was obvious. But Cas could hear the strain and anger in Dean's voice as he'd yelled at him that first night- he didn't want to be putting any of this on anyone else. He wanted to shoulder this alone and act as though he was just mad at John for keeping records they didn't need and that he wasn't ready to take over the shop. Cas wouldn't know what to do with himself if Dean went and did something so far as to admit that he was sad and missed his father the way any 26 year old man would miss his. Cas wanted nothing more than to help Dean actually grieve, but instead, he could take charge and make decisions for Dean and help him numb himself with sex. Cas wasn't deluded enough to think them sleeping together was anything more than a topical novacaine of a sort. He gritted his teeth and curled his fingernails into his damp palms at the remembrance.

But Cas brushed those thoughts aside. Now was not the time to be thinking about his own feelings. He was in Salvation Ink for a reason and it wasn't to stand inside the office and feel sorry for himself.

When he stepped back into the main area, Charlie was gone. Dean must have seen the question on his face.

"She went to get some food. And beer, I hope."

Cas nodded. He couldn't do anything about John's equipment without Charlie though so he shoved his hands in his pockets and watched as Dean tried to keep going through papers. It wasn't long before Dean looked up, bothered by Cas' standing there.

"I'm not sure what you'd like me to do, now. I can't look through any of your father's equipment." Cas tried to explain that calmly. Dean's mouth twitched in consideration.

"Just toss it all," he said, voice hard and quiet.

"Dean--'

"I said just toss it all, Cas. I've got my own machines and I don't need his cluttering up my work space. He hadn't gotten anything new in damn near fifteen years anyway. I'm surprised some of that shit even works still."

Dean didn’t look at Cas, though Cas longed for him to, just so he could implore him to reconsider. But Dean waited for Cas to head back into the workspace.

Cas made a show of carrying all John's machines and the decorated cases- bumper stickers of previous parlors, drawings taped on, actual carvings etched into the material- slowly to the front of the shop. He did it one by one; Dean had to have seen every piece at least out of the corner of his eye. At one point, Cas was fairly certain all Dean was doing was watching him. The flurry of papers that had been the background noise along with the music had stopped.

"The dumpster's closer to the front door," Cas said by way of explanation. Dean just grunted at him in response. Cas went and propped the door open and started to make his way outside with equipment, still going with one piece at a time, though several of the machines could have been taken in one trip. He turned the corner to get out from the window of the shop and immediately passed the dumpster. He'd driven his car to the parlor that day and there was no way he was going to let Dean throw away his father's work equipment without due consideration. He could store the things in his trunk.

Dean didn’t say anything as Cas took things outside and Cas was glad of it. He sat down on the couch with the intentions of thumbing through the magazines on the table in front of him. All the labels were addressed to John Winchester and he toyed with the idea of trying to black them out. He dismissed the idea and opened up the magazine that had a blurb proclaiming “Literary Tattoos- Bookworms with Ink.”

Nothing else was particularly of interest to him‒ a number of interviews with unfamiliar tattoo artists (which was every artist other than Dean), a few pieces on new (old) piercing techniques, and a spread on iconography tattoos that Cas skipped over deliberately, unable to look at the rendering of Christ with a bloody crown of thorns without his stomach knotting. When he finally found what the cover had teased on literary tattoos, he was disappointed.  It spanned two pages and there was nothing that caught his eye as particularly clever; there was a bell jar on a woman’s shoulder, a giving tree cover illustration on a man’s ribs, a lightning bolt with the word “Gryffindor” beneath it behind someone’s ear, and a banner reading “Non Serviam” around an apple amongst a few quotes Cas could barely read and were clichéd by that point when he could make them out.

He flipped the page in disgust and was taken aback by what he saw there.

He’d seen plenty of floral tattoos in these magazines when he looked through them before, and he’d seen the floral flash on the walls in the shop, but he was enthralled by the soft lines of the tattoos on the next two pages. There were no hard outlines, every flower just melting right into flesh and some had white filigree around them. They looked as silky as real petals. Cas traced the lines of a potted mum on a woman’s thigh. It was beautiful. And so were the rest of the tattoos displayed there.

The only thing that broke him from his fascination was the tinkling of the bell as Charlie nudged the door open with her elbow since her hands were full of food. Cas tossed the magazine back onto the table and rushed to help her. He took the six pack of beer from her one hand so she could handle the box she had.

“I didn’t know exactly what you wanted, so I got a lot of stuff,” she called to Dean. She looked sheepishly at Cas who counted seven different tinfoil and paper wrapped items before Charlie’d passed him. “Plus, El Rebozo was doing a happy hour special.”

Dean straightened up from behind the counter where somehow he was still sorting through papers and gave a small smile to Charlie; it was the first one he’d worn all day.  He grabbed two things indiscriminately out of the box where she’d set it on the counter and popped a beer open when Cas handed him one. He plopped himself down on the couch in the spot Cas had just vacated, settling the beer between his legs instead of leaning forward to use the table.

Cas, still standing at the counter, had just taken a bite of a taco he’d picked when Charlie asked “So, do you want me to get started on sorting the equipment from useful and not?”

Dean shook his head, chewing his burrito. He took a swig from his beer before answering. The smile he’d had was gone. “No, Cas already took care of it. I decided I wanted it all gone.”

“Wh‒”

Cas put a hand on Charlie’s wrist to get her attention and cut her off with a shake of his head. She looked betrayed completely and Cas tried to will understanding to her. He wished there was a way he could give her more than just a look to try to tell her about what he’d done instead of listening to Dean. Unfortunately, there wasn’t.

“I’ve got my own equipment, Charlie. Anybody who comes to work here will too. And he was using the same stuff he was back in the 90s for the most part.”

“It still worked though,” Charlie couldn’t keep herself from protesting.

“Yeah, and so does mine,” Dean shrugged. He leveled her with a look. “Just drop it.”

Charlie snapped her mouth closed for a moment before angrily taking a bite of quesadilla. Cas had to keep from snorting at how silly it looked and he felt a rush of affection and gratitude for Charlie. No matter how much he loved Dean and wanted to be there for him right now, he knew Charlie being around would help keep him sane. He understood Dean’s attitude, but it wasn’t exactly pleasant all the time. Dean hadn’t even seemed to have notice.

“Well, then what else can we help with?” Charlie asked once she’d polished off the quesadilla and a taco.

“Nothin’” Dean said half into his beer bottle. “I just need to sort through the shit you put in the office and I think we’ll be good. We can probably open back up tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Charlie said slowly. Cas wanted to protest, to tell Dean to wait until he was really ready, but one look in Charlie’s direction told him not to. Dean’s expression welcomed no argument either and Cas wondered just how bad this week would be.

***

Dean was working constantly during the week. Whenever Cas came into the shop to see how he was doing, he was swamped.

“I’ll be right with you,” Dean called from the back of the shop. Cas could hear the buzz of the machine.

“It’s not a client, Dean, it’s me,” Cas called right back. It was then that he noticed an angry looking blonde girl barely old enough to be in the shop on the couch. Cas smiled at her politely and got a blank stare in return. He kept walking and knocked on the doorframe before peaking his head in.

“Is it alright if I step in?”

“Fine by me,” the client said. He was a gruff bald man who vaguely discomforted Cas for some reason.

“Sorry, making up for lost time. Taking my dad’s clients when I can,” Dean told Cas, ducking forward to speak past the man where he was working on his bicep. “I’m probably skipping class tomorrow. The only time somebody could meet was right in the middle of it and I hate that class anyway.”

“Alright. I’ll tell you if anything interesting happens then. I’m sure nothing will.” Cas saw Dean smile. “Is there anything you could use help with? Is Charlie here?”

“Charlie’s teaching that computer class over at the community center tonight, won’t be here until later. She signed up to do it before…” Dean trailed off. The buzz of the machine and the light sounds of the radio were the only sounds for a moment. “But yeah, you could help. I’m just about done here, so you think you can ring him out and send Claire on back when I am?”

Cas nodded and stepped back out into the front room. The girl‒ Claire‒ looked up from her phone briefly and Cas tried a smile again. This time he got an eye roll. He told himself not to bother even looking at her again. But she looked so young and the defiance on her face reminded him so of Anna that he couldn’t help but feel a sense of worry for her; should she be here? Was she on her own?

“How old are you?” he finally asked after he’d toyed with the register to figure it out. He winced. “I mean, are you old enough for a tattoo?”

“You’re not my dad, what difference does it make to you?” 

Cas shrugged and tried to play nonchalant. “You remind me of one of my sisters when she was younger. Getting a tattoo underage was something she would have done. Mostly to upset our parents.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t have parents and I turned 18 three days ago, so I’m not underage. Wanna ask any more invasive questions?”

“I’m sorry to have interrupted you,” Cas apologized. He picked up the pen that sat on the register and pulled a piece of scrap paper from the recycling bin he’d insisted on getting for the shop after a few weeks of seeing how much paper they tossed in the garbage. _You are a split infinitive,_ he scrawled down, _who I am more afraid to not have/ than not to have._  He wasn’t sure where it had come from and he had nothing else to go on from there. He stared at it until he heard the machine buzz quiet and he crossed the lines out.

The bald man walked into the main room and Dean called “Claire, come on back.”

Cas told her “good luck” as she passed him and she gave him an odd look. The bald man paid in cash, and handed Cas another twenty dollar bill separately.

“Make sure he gets that. And tell him I was sorry to hear about his old man.”

Cas nodded and gave him a “have a nice day, thank you” and he was out the door. Cas felt as though he could breathe easier and he berated himself; the man had been nothing but polite, but there had been something that set Cas on edge, a familiarity to someone he couldn’t place. He shook the unnerved feeling out of his mind and was about to step back and see how else he could help when the phone started to ring.

“Cas‒”

“I’ve got it, yes,” Cas called before picking up the phone with a polite “Salvation Ink, how may I help you?”

“I need to reschedule my appointment for tomorrow,” a feminine voice said without preamble. “Can you be a dear and do that for me?”

“One moment, ma’am. May I get your name?”

“It’ll be scheduled under Abigail Donn”

Cas said thank you and set the phone down on the counter. He leaned into the other room where Dean was working. Claire had her back to Dean with her shirt off and Cas immediately felt the need to avert his eyes. He heard Dean snort.

“A woman by the name of Abigail Donn wants to know if she can reschedule her appointment for tomorrow.” Cas kept his head turned away while he waited for Dean’s answer.

“Fuck. Tell her I’ll call her back at the number she left for when I can meet with her instead. I swear, she’s been the most demanding client I’ve ever worked on. I’ve redrawn her design at least six different times.”

Dean said all this without ever taking his eyes off the work he was doing on Claire’s back, not that Cas noticed.  Cas nodded and returned to the phone.

“You tell Dean that he will call me back within the next hour or I’ll take my business elsewhere, no matter how pretty he is” was the woman’s response when Cas repeated Dean’s message. He tried to remain polite and then he hung up, glad.

“She said to call her back within the hour,” Cas called, not going back into the room this time. He heard Dean grunt in annoyance. “I can stay if you need more help, Dean.”

“It’s up to you,” Dean responded. Cas tried not to feel bothered by the noncommittal answer, but he found himself not wanting to leave, though he had no real reason to stay.

Cas stood at the register for another minute and looked around aimlessly before he admitted that he would stay until Charlie showed up and he might as well try to get some of his own work done if he could. He grabbed a book out of his bag and tried to get his reading for his senior seminar class done, but he couldn’t concentrate at all. He wound up rereading the same poem from _Lyrical Ballads_ three times without having any idea of what it was; he couldn’t even tell if it was Wordsworth or Coleridge poem and he gave up, shoving the book back into his bag. Instead, he drew out a notebook and picked up the pen from the register again.

He spent the next hour scribbling half formed lines that lead to nothing down onto a decreasingly blank page and growing more and more frustrated with himself. There was nothing there. He started to tear the page out and stopped himself. He tried to start up again and was simply stringing beautiful words‒ _mellifluous, bellicose, murmur, triumvirate‒_ together in no order by the time Charlie arrived. He sighed in relief and flipped his notebook shut with as much force as he could.

“Dean’s working on a client,” Cas told her as she took her computer bag off her shoulder and headed towards her work space. “And I’m leaving now that you’re here.”

Charlie gave him a distracted nod and Cas called goodbye to Dean with no response.

He left Salvation Ink with a bitter taste in his mouth and his shoulder hunched against the cold snap they’d been hit with again. He wanted nothing more than to go home and read something trashy that had no literary merit for a few hours and forget this whole world existed, but he knew that he would need to get through his assignments eventually.

It felt like a long drive home, and time seemed to stretch out just as much once he was there. His dinner of zucchini and Italian sausage lasagna tasted bland on his tongue and Wordsworth seemed just as dull as he had in the shop. Even the bottle of wine that he opened after two and a half hours of tedium didn’t appeal to him the way he wanted it to.

He’d finished a glass and had just resigned himself to getting no work done and simply reading a Michael Crichton novel with his disappointing wine, when there was a knock at his door. He didn’t have time to go answer it before the door was opening and Dean was stepping inside.

“You told me where the spare key was,” he said by way of explanation. Dean heaved his bag to the floor. “You got more of that wine?”

Cas nodded. “The bottle’s on the counter. I didn’t think you liked wine?”

Dean just shrugged as he passed Cas to head to the kitchen. Cas turned to watch Dean pour himself a glass‒ filling it too high to be decorous‒ and down half of it with a look of disgust. He came to stand next to Cas, his lip still curled up at the taste of the wine. He didn’t say anything and Cas hesitated before moving into the living room like he had planned on doing before Dean showed up. Instead of stopping at his bookshelf though, he turned on the TV. He tried to change the channel with the remote once he sat down and nothing happened. He changed the batteries, exchanging them for the ones in the DVD player remote, and then started to browse through options. Dean was silent throughout the whole thing. Cas kept glancing over at him and finally cracked.

“Seen anything you want to watch?” What he wanted to ask was ‘what are you doing here?’ and ‘are you alright?’ but he refrained.

Dean shook his head and took another gulp of his wine. He grimaced again.

“I do have beer, you know. Good beer, even.”

Dean shrugged. “This is fine.”

Cas pursed his lips and just remained silent. He finally stopped changing channels, landing on the Discovery Channel where _MythBusters_ was playing. He looked to Dean to see if he had feelings one way or the other and saw no reaction. He wondered how long they would sit on the couch without saying anything to one another and how in the world this was enjoyable. Despite his feelings for Dean, despite the fact that he loved being with him, this was not a comfortable companionship; this was Cas waiting for the other shoe to drop because he had no idea why Dean was here and no idea what Dean wanted from him. And Dean clearly wanted something from being here. There was too much tension in his posture for anything else to be true.

Cas was in no mood to ask him to explain though. If Dean wanted something, he could ask for it. After all, he was the one who’d just barged into Cas’ home. One episode bled into another and Dean had finished his wine but hadn’t said anything. Halfway through a second episode, Cas stood up and took his wine glass to the kitchen to refill it. He took the bottle with him. After setting it and his glass down, he went picked _Lyrical Ballads_ back up and out of pure spite finished the assigned reading he had for the night, making copious annotations. All the while, Dean said nothing and had only refilled his glass of wine half way. Cas felt like he was about to turn and snap on him, shake him and ask what Cas could do for him because all he wanted to do was help.

Instead when he turned to say something‒anything‒ Dean caught his eye.

“Do you mind if I stay here tonight?”

Dean’s voice sounded so small that Cas broke. There was no way he could yell at his friend and there was even less of a chance him denying the request.

“Of course not, Dean.”

“Thanks.”

They fell back into silence between the two of them. The bottle of wine had barely a glassful left in it and Cas poured half into his own glass. He made to pour the rest into Dean’s and got waved off. Instead, Cas filled his glass to nearly the brim and had to lean over the table to slurp some off the top. He expected at least a snort of a laugh out of Dean but got nothing.

In fact, Dean didn’t say anything the whole rest of the night until Cas reached for his hand to lead him to the bedroom.

“You need to sleep, Dean. I have an extra toothbrush you can use in the top left drawer.  Take care of business then strip to your boxers and lay down. I don’t want you to think we’re having sex.”

“Alright,” Dean nodded, his expression giving nothing other than his exhaustion away. Cas turned away from Dean and started to pull off his clothes to throw in the hamper. He sat down on the edge of the bed and pushed on a bruise he had on his knee and waited for Dean to leave the bathroom. Dean was silent when he walked out and moved around the bed to pull the covers back and crawl in. He still had his shirt on. Cas glanced back at him, unable to stop himself, before he stepped into the bathroom.

Dean was curled onto his side facing away from him by the time Cas came out. Cas slid into bed and made sure to give Dean enough space. Neither knew how long it took for them both to fall asleep, but they knew they weren’t saying a word to each other and they weren’t touching.

When Cas woke up, Dean was already gone, the only evidence that he had been there at all the half full coffee pot he’d left for Cas.

For the next two weeks, it was the same thing. Dean simply was not present, even when he was right next to Cas. Neither of them had even tried to initiate sex. Dean had circles under his eyes and his skin looked sallow and he turned down Cas’ offers of food almost every time he came over. He continued to drink whatever Cas was drinking, no matter how many times Cas told him he had beer. One night Cas started off drinking beer just on the chance that Dean would show up and want whatever he was having; as soon as Cas switched to wine, so did Dean and it took everything he had not to snap. The blankness of Dean’s face held him back.

“How many clients do you have tomorrow?” Cas asked as soon as Dean walked into his place the second Thursday the shop was back in business.

Dean looked startled. “I think like, two?”

“What time?”

“They’re both later in the afternoon. First one’s at 2, I think? I’d have to check. I’m supposed to open up at 11‒”

“Call Charlie and tell her she’s opening tomorrow. You’re going to rest and not get up at dawn to try to finish up any work tomorrow. If you get out of bed before 11, I will consider it rude.”

Something flashed in Dean’s eyes and Cas felt a thrill go through him; so Dean could still have an emotional response to something.

“Cas‒”

“Also, you can’t refuse food tonight. I made chili and you need to eat it. I know you’ve been subsisting on coffee and whatever Charlie brings you when you get a moment at the shop. And‒”

“Cas,” Dean was the one to interrupt then. Anger laced his voice. “I can take care of myself.”

“You don’t have to,” Cas responded without a thought. “Let me do this.”

They met eyes and Cas had to turn away. He started heading towards the kitchen and curled two fingers in for Dean to follow him.

“And you’re drinking beer tonight. Stop drinking my wine when you hate it. I bought the damn beer for you,” Cas said as he crossed to the refrigerator. He pointed at a chair and Dean rolled his eyes but sat. Cas smiled to himself as he grabbed a beer and his already opened bottle of wine. Dean looked present in a way he hadn’t in weeks when Cas brought him the beer.

He made a show of looking surly as he took a gulp from the beer and Cas stopped himself from sticking his tongue out. Instead, he went to the stove where the chili was heating up. He made a bowl up for Dean and brought it to him. Cas sipped at his wine as Dean took his first bite.

“If I need to eat, then so do you,” he said after swallowing another mouthful of beer.

“I already ate because I can actually take care of myself.”

Dean glared and Cas just smirked at him. Dean continued to glare as he kept eating.

“Anything else you’re demanding?” Dean asked when he was halfway through the chili and done with his beer. Cas got up and got him another one without Dean asking for one. He took the empty bottle and set it in his recycling bin. Dean pursed his lips, but cracked the bottle open.

“If I am are you going to refuse me?” Cas’ voice was hard the same way it was whenever he ordered Dean onto his knees or to spread his legs. The stare he leveled Dean with was the same too.

“No,” Dean said into his food.

“What was that?”

“No, Cas, I’ll do what you want.” Dean looked up and met Cas’ eyes then. Cas stood next to him and took his chin in his hands, tilting his face up. He leaned down and pressed a hard, closed mouth kiss to Dean’s lips. If this brought Dean out of his funk, this is what they would do. _Anything for you,_ Cas thought.

“Good. Because when you’re done‒ and you will finish that bowl, I know how you can eat‒ I have plans.”

Those plans included marathon watching Clint Eastwood movies until Dean had had enough. Cas had underestimated Dean’s ability to watch westerns though, and found himself more fascinated by watching the play of emotions on Dean’s face as he recited lines along with the movies. He couldn’t stop himself from playing deliberately obtuse just to have Dean act incredulous and explain old west cultural traditions that he’d learned solely from watching movies. Dean smiled and Cas didn’t have to ask him to at all.

They’d finished their third movie when Cas made a move to get up and change the dvd and Dean stopped him with a hand wrapped around his wrist.

“Can we put on a record instead?”

It was the first time Dean had given his opinion of what he wanted in weeks and Cas felt like celebrating. Instead he nodded. Dean pulled him down to the couch while he got up and went to Cas’ bin of records.  Dean had thumbed through the first couple when Cas thought to warn him.

“It’s mostly jazz, you know. There isn’t any Led Zeppelin or Pink Floyd.”

“I figured,” Dean said, giving nothing away. He paused on one record for a moment and Cas tried to look around him to see what it was. Dean flipped it too fast for Cas to make out what the cover was. “It was just a name I think I’ve heard before.”

Cas accepted that as an explanation and was surprised when Dean had an album in his hands and brought it to the player. The needle dropped and Cas cocked his head.

“You know Herbie Hancock?”

“You can recognize who it is by those ten seconds?”

“You can’t tell a classic rock song from the first measure?”

Dean looked about to retort and stopped himself, conceding Cas’ point. He walked back to the couch and sat close enough to Cas that there was no point pretending. Cas pulled Dean to him and they were making out in earnest before the intro to the song had even finished.

Cas climbed on top of Dean’s lap and pushed his hands against the back of the couch so his elbows were bent up. The stubble Dean had been building up for days burned against Cas’ chin and neck as they couldn’t seem to stop moving as they kissed. Cas ground his hips down into Dean and Dean tried to surge up to meet him. Cas dug his knees into Dean’s thighs to stop him and Dean whined into the kiss they hadn’t broken. Cas nipped at his lower lip.

“We’re going upstairs.”

Dean nodded though it wasn’t a question and Cas slid off the his lap and stood up. Dean started to and Cas pushed him back.

“You wait.”

Cas stripped his shirt over his head slowly and let it drop to the floor. Dean’s eyes trailed up his bare chest and Cas brought a hand up to tease at one of his nipples just to hear Dean whine. Cas undid his zipper and stepped out of his pants. His cock was hard and bulged in his boxers. He rubbed at it to tease Dean and bit his lip. He didn’t take his eyes from Dean.

“Come upstairs with me.”

Again, Dean nodded and Cas let him stand up. He wrapped Dean into his arms and kissed him still taking control even though he had to reach up just the smallest bit. His hips bucked against where Dean was hard in his jeans and Cas smirked into the kiss. He then pushed Dean away and Dean stumbled back onto the couch. Cas’ smirk turned into a full grin. Dean looked dazed.

Cas made sure as he walked up stairs, slowly, deliberately, that his hips swung in just the right way to emphasize the muscles of his back and his ass. He knew exactly how closely Dean was following him and how much tension was rolling off him to keep from reaching out and touching.     

When Cas reached the bedroom he turned around and pulled Dean in, backing the two of them up until he hit the bed with his knees. He flipped them and rolled on top of Dean. He backed up long enough to get Dean’s shirt off and he kissed down his chest until he could bite at his nipples in a tease. His hands traced the outline of the bluebird tattoo he hadn’t yet had time to explore, but urgency spurred him on. Dean whined and Cas’ hands went to Dean’s pants. He kept kissing him as he shucked them off him. He didn’t hesitate to take his boxers off as well. They were both naked in almost seconds.  

“I want you to fuck me,” Cas told him, breaking off the kiss they’d been deepening. Dean let go of where he was biting Cas’ lower lip in retaliation and it popped.

“What?” Dean asked dumbly. Cas rolled his hips where he was on top of Dean and their cocks rubbed together.

“I want you to fuck me,” Cas repeated, amusement in his voice. “I want to feel that pretty dick in my ass while I ride you at a gallop until my knees feel weak and I want to shoot all over your chest and I want to decorate those perky nipples with my come.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dean breathed. Cas just smirked down at him and bucked his hips more.

“I think it’s only fair play since I let you be such a good needy little cockslut,” Cas said. The smirk on his face made Dean’s whine even worse. “And I want you to get yourself completely wet for me so I can just sink down on your cock and not have to do any of the work instead of getting myself off. Can you do that for me?”

Dean was nodding at the same time as he was reaching over for the bottle of lube Cas kept in his drawer. He pulled out the first bottle he found‒ unflavored and made to go over latex‒ and a condom along with it. Cas was still straddling him, but not moving at all other than leisurely stroking his cock.

Cas nodded toward the condom that was still on the bed and Dean tore it open and rolled it on with practiced ease. “Hurry up or I’ll get impatient,” he said as Dean fumbled with the cap of the lube for a quick second. Dean stroked his own cock with too much of the lube and could have kept squeezing and jacking his dick to make himself get off, but the way Cas was looking at him made him stop. His cock slapped wetly against his belly.

Cas leaned down to kiss Dean as he positioned himself around Dean’t dick and sank down fast. He moved so quickly that Dean cried out in pleasure nearing pain and was keening as Cas bottomed out.  He went to put his hands on Cas’ waist but Cas stopped him, grabbing his wrists and foisting them above his head, pinning them there with one hand.

“I’m still in charge, Dean,” Cas said, shifting his hips just slightly enough to change how tight he felt around Dean’s cock. He clenched his muscles as well, but tried not to make a big deal of it. He couldn‘t help but smirk when Dean had to bite his lip to hold back a whine.

“I want you to just lay back and let me take from you.”

Dean groaned but he stopped trying to fight his immobility. Cas smiled down at him and started to rock at such a slow pace that Dean thought he might scream. He could feel that Cas was angling himself so that Dean’s cock brushed across his prostate with every thrust but it would take anyone forever to get off from just the touches he was giving himself. The frustration must have shone on Dean’s face because Cas’ smile turned into a sadistic grin and he upped his speed, rocking himself down on Dean’s hard cock even faster. He brought the hand that had been splayed across Dean’s chest, just pressing down against his pectorals and his nipples, up and touched the tip of his own dick. With a particularly rough thrust downward and a stroke up, he groaned long and loud. The rim of his hole fluttered around Dean.

“Cas,” Dean started. Cas leaned down and pulled Dean into a brutal kiss before he could continue. Dean groaned into it. Cas bucked down harder and Dean whined.

Cas wrapped a hand around his own cock and started to twist and stroke.

“I want you to feel how I come around your cock. Get me off so you can.”

Cas released Dean’s wrists and Dean’s hands immediately moved, one wrapping around Cas’ hips to pull him down and the other joining Cas’ hand around his dick. Dean twisted his wrist and played around Cas’ cock head, his thumb pressing the frenulum how he knew Cas liked. He snapped his hips up now that Cas had given him permission, trying to fuck up into him harder. He dug his fingertips into Cas’ hips and Cas’ muscles contracted around Dean and Dean felt like his eyes were going to roll back in his head.

“Please come, Cas, please,” he begged. He knew he couldn’t come until Cas had and the pace they had going was making that difficult. “I want you to come on me, please.”

He started to stroke Cas’ cock where Cas had left off to push down on Dean’s chest and rock himself harder and faster and Dean was still pumping his hips up with as much leverage as he could and then Cas’ hands went rigid and he stilled and he was coming. He squeezed around Dean’s cock tight and he groaned long and spurts of jizz hit Dean’s chest, hot and sticky. Dean’s hips thrust up one last time and he was coming too.

Aftershocks hit him when Cas leaned down and lick his nipples, cleaning the come that had landed there. He moved to kiss Dean and tongued it into his mouth. When Cas pulled away, Dean stuck out his tongue, showing that he hadn’t swallowed yet and when Cas gave him a sated nod, he did.

“That’s fucking hot every time you do it, Dean,” Cas told him, Dean’s cock softening while still in him. He ran a hand through Dean’s hair and down his cheek. “You’re so good.”

Dean flushed scarlet and tried to look away. Cas grasped his chin and forced him to look at him.

“You deserve to hear that.”

Dean’s lips tightened but Cas didn’t push further. Instead, he eased himself off of Dean and stood up. Dean made to move as well and Cas shook his head.

“Let me get you cleaned up. Just relax.”

When Cas came back it was with a warm, damp rag to clean up Dean’s chest, and Dean had removed the condom and tossed it away tied up. Cas was methodical about wiping Dean up, his hands gentle and his expression reverent. Dean could barely look at him his face was so gentle, and he felt on the verge of sleep or tears of satisfaction. He felt good. It lasted only until Cas had been laid back down with him and ran a finger across his chest, tracing the still a little scabbed bluebird tattoo over his heart.

“You do deserve to hear that you’re good, you know.”

“Yeah, I’ll put it on my resume: ‘great in the sack, men and women,’” Dean responded. Cas leaned up and looked annoyed.

“You know that’s not what I meant.” He looked about ready to go on, but decided against it. He grinned slyly, “But that’s definitely true, too. You’re very good at taking what I give you.”

Dean’s discomfort lessened and he laughed a little. He turned to face Cas.

“Can I ask you something?” Cas nodded. “Where’d you learn to be like this in bed? And what’s with the snowballing?”

It was Cas’ turn to laugh. “I don’t think anyone’s called it that since the ‘90s.” Dean laughed a little too, very glad that whatever earnestness Cas had felt like trying to bring to this situation had passed. “And I’m assuming you mean the dom-sub dynamic aspect of our relationship?”

Dean snorted. “You make it sound so clinical.” Cas rolled his eyes.

“Well, that’s what it is, Dean.” His expression was soft and playful as he said that, but it turned more introspective as he breathed deeply and went on. “The man I slept with in seminary, Father Cain‒ this was how our relationship was.”

“You acted dominant for a priest? Jesus, Cas‒”

“No, I subbed for him. He was not a man who would ever act as a sub.” Cas paused to let that sink in for Dean. He could almost see the gears turning in Dean’s head and the way his imagination was whirring. “At that time in my life, I needed to act as a sub,” he explained before Dean could ask why he’d switched. “Now, I can act as either. Believe me, it’s not an imposition to be your dom when we have sex.”

Dean squirmed at the sentence. In his heart he knew he was submissive in bed, that that was the term for it, but he didn’t like to think about it too hard and he certainly didn’t like hearing it said out loud. Cas said it with no judgment and that made it easier though. Dean still wasn’t going to call himself a sub.

Cas smiled. He could see Dean’s thought process. “Don’t think so hard.”

Dean tried to smile back but he didn’t succeed particularly well. Cas tried to swallow his emotions at that; he tried to pretend that it didn’t bother him.

“Do you want to go to sleep so you’re well rested for your appointments tomorrow?” They both knew it was an out for Dean, but they wouldn’t address it. When Dean nodded, Cas could pretend that that’s all it was. It wasn’t that Dean couldn’t handle actually feeling something right now, no matter what his demeanor the past few weeks had been, it was simply that he needed rest. No matter what the rational part of Cas’ mind told him, that was what he told himself.

Cas still couldn’t stop himself from pressing a kiss against Dean’s forehead before he pulled up the blankets. Dean turned away from Cas to go to sleep. Cas frowned but he couldn’t stop himself from spooning up against Dean. Dean didn’t scoot away and didn’t grimace, but he made no motion to move into Cas as he had once.

When Dean was asleep he snuggled against Cas. It wasn’t until he was unconscious that he wasn’t trying to curl up into himself.

Cas reveled in the feeling of holding Dean until he too fell into slumber.

It was 11:04 when Cas woke up and Dean had left a note on his pillow.

_I waited until 11, but I had to go._

It didn’t feel real to Cas and he wished he could take it as a lie and storm into the parlor. Yet, it wasn’t actually any of his business and he realized that he had all day to come up with a reason to be upset. It hadn’t worked by 1 o’clock when he had to head to a meeting. The creative writing magazine for the college didn’t seem to care about specifics, and none of them could tell that Cas was in such a funk that specifics didn’t matter to him. Someone else had to care about the meter rather than him.

“You really don’t care?” Naomi, their faculty advisor asked. “You once were a stickler for meter, Castiel.”

He shrugged. “I guess not everything has to be so neat.”

He was able to get away with not saying anything for the rest of the meeting. In fact, he didn’t say anything to anyone for the whole rest of the day.


	10. Chapter 10

When Dean finally put up a “Help Wanted” sign in the window of Salvation Ink, it was at the behest of Charlie.

“Dean, I’m sorry. I love you, and I miss your dad, too,” she’d choked out, “but we can’t cover all the shifts we should have open and we’ll go broke if we don’t. We’ve got to find a new tattoo artist.” She’d rolled her chair across to his space where he was trying to sketch something for a client. “You can’t do every tattoo we give. It’s not sustainable.”

Dean hadn’t said anything, just gone back to his drawing, and Charlie had let it drop. The next day there was an orange and black sign in the window. It hurt, but it was necessary. Neither Charlie nor Dean had said anything about it.

The first person who came in about it was a Latina woman who said her name was Ellie and that she was looking for some work on a temporary basis; she was headed to Arizona to take care of her mom but needed to earn some quick cash. She flirted with Dean, though he didn’t respond much. What he did do was tell her that while her portfolio was good, they were looking for someone a little more permanent due to a management change.

“You sure you can’t use a temp? I can be awfully helpful” she asked, a leering smile on her lips that was meant to make Dean rethink his position.

“Yeah, I’m sure. Our manager just died and I’m not looking to train someone again in a few months. Sorry.”

He said it emotionlessly, but that was enough to trip the woman’s alarms. She backed off.

“I understand. You know anybody who would be looking for temporary employees?”

“Maybe the bookstore downtown? They’ve got college kids who quit all the time,” Charlie chimed in. Ellie gave her a smile and thanked her. She collected her portfolio up‒ there really had been some good work in there and Dean was almost upset that she was only looking to stay for a few months; they could have used a hand as good as hers and she was awfully easy on the eyes. She turned and gave a small, sad smile over her shoulder as she reached the door.

“Whoever they were‒ your last manager? I’m sorry you lost them.”

Charlie grimaced as she tried to judge Dean’s reaction out of the corner of her eye. He barely had one.

“At least we got the first one out of the way, huh?” she shrugged. Dean grunted his agreement and then went back to his work station to keep sketching one of the too many things he had due. Charlie wondered if he ever actually had time to do his homework anymore.

“When was the last time Cas was here?” It seemed like an appropriate question, even if it were one Dean didn’t want to answer. He shrugged.

“Not that long ago? Couple weeks maybe?” Dean could barely keep time straight and he’d seen Cas the night before. He had a welt across his ass where he’d taken a particularly hard hit from a belt. When he’d slid his jeans on that morning he’d gotten hard just remembering it. “He doesn’t actually work here, you know.  He’s mostly just an innocent here to see the scenery.”

“Unless the scenery is you, I doubt it,” Charlie said, barely remembering to say it under her breath or risk Dean giving her the silent treatment for months.  What she told Dean was totally different. “Oh well, I’m sure you’re both getting on fine. I mean, Cas would come by. Cas would make a big deal out of not being fine, right?’

Dean nodded. He wasn’t entirely sure why Charlie was asking or even what exactly she was asking, but he could answer her nonetheless.

“He hasn’t been helping you with that poetry class either?”

Dean shook his head, not taking his eyes off what he was drawing. “Nothing to help me with. Stopped doing the reading, didn’t do the last writing assignment. Didn’t have time.”

Charlie could see the lines of tension across Dean’s shoulder blades and she bit her lip. There was something Dean wasn’t telling her, but she wouldn’t push. Instead, she thought about the conversation she’d had with Cas. This could be an opportunity to do better at this. She took a deep breath.

“Dean?”

“What?”

The annoyance blossoming in his voice made Charlie back down. “Oh, um, nevermind.”

She started to pull a book out from her bag to maybe catch up on some reading, but then she noticed the whispers of Dean’s pen drawing lines on paper had stopped. She looked up at him. He’d set his pen down and was staring at her impatiently.

“Say whatever you were gonna say, Charlie. I know you didn’t forget what it was.”

Charlie stared at the book in her hand for what felt like a long while. The problem was that, no, she didn’t forget, but she had no idea how to say what she wanted to.

“There are days it’s easier,” she blurted out finally. She wouldn’t look up and she felt her face get hot. “It doesn’t hurt this bad all the time.”

Dean was silent but for the creak of his chair as he spun it back to face his desk. He picked up his pen again and went back to drawing. Charlie still hadn’t moved and he’d finished what he was working on before he ever responded to what she’d said. Charlie felt like she’d been holding her breath for the last quarter of an hour of silence.

“This isn’t the first time I lost a parent,” was what Dean finally said. His voice was flat and he didn’t look at her. “Now, I’d like to be able to work on the rest of these sketches. Do you mind going to turn on the radio?”

Charlie nodded. She silently thanked Dean for the opportunity to leave the room as her lip started to quiver and she had to chew it to keep from crying. She waited only long enough to turn the radio on and the volume up and Traffic covered up the sounds of her tears.

***

Cas was back in the shop the next day. Dean didn’t ask what had given him the urge to show up, but he was grateful for it. He’d never noticed how much work his dad got done around the shop while he must have been doing schoolwork or drinking and it suddenly seemed like they were busier than they ever had been; the massive amounts of paperwork he’d had to sort through made more sense at that point.

Cas was good at doing little things around the place and it was nice for Dean not to have to deal with collecting payment and the like. It was also hilarious watching Cas interact with some of his clients; when Abigail Donn blazed into the shop, hair in a rockabilly up-do and starting to unbutton her gingham and lace dress at the chest, Dean thought Cas’ eyes might actually bug out from fear. She’d just smirked and asked “Haven’t you ever seen a woman’s breasts before?”

Dean’d gritted his teeth and prepared to be watched like a hawk for the next two hours as he added to the piece she’d had done last year.

“That woman looked like she could eat you alive,” Cas said when she left. His voice was full of fear and Dean couldn’t help but laugh a little. There was an unexpected lull in clients for Dean, though Charlie was in the backroom with a group of sorority girls who were all getting tragus piercings. She’d refused Dean’s help when one of them‒ a brunette in an old school bomber jacket‒ had caught her eye.

“She’s awfully demanding, yeah,” Dean agreed. He leered and went on. “She’s got a great pair of‒”

“The next word out of your mouth had better be legs or eyes,” the sorority girl Charlie’d smiled at said as she exited the back room.

“Yeah, of course, I’m definitely a leg guy,” Dean lied, the tips of his ears turning red. He saw the girl reach a hand up to her ear. “Don’t touch it unless you’re cleaning it. And rotate it when you clean it.”

She nodded and let her hand drop.  She walked to the register, pulled out her wallet, and paid for the entire group’s piercings, pulling a marker out of the bin next to the register. She jotted something down on a bill and she looked completely unembarrassed when she told Dean to make sure “the cute redhead doing all the work gets this.” The rest of the girls were coming out then. She smirked and shrugged when Dean gave her a teasing look. “I am a leg girl.”

“You wish you had this much game,” Charlie crowed when Dean handed her the twenty with a number on it. Dean rolled his eyes and was stopped from replying when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Charlie headed back to her station to fill out paperwork.

”Hey, Sammy, what’s up?”

Cas couldn’t stop himself from trying to eavesdrop. He couldn’t make out anything Sam was saying though.

“No, things are fine here. Busy as hell, but fine. How’s school?” Dean’s brow furrowed and his mouth turned down. “I just told you they’re fine. I’m fine. You gonna answer my question?”

Dean’s expression turned even more sour as he listened to Sam and Cas wanted desperately to know what he was saying.

“No, Sam,” Dean said finally; it was clear he was interrupting Sam. “There’s no way I’m letting you do that. We’re busy but there’s no way I’d let you do that. You’re not taking any more time off school. I’m not dragging you away from your life and your girl and your future.”

Sam apparently tried to protest and Dean shook his head though his brother couldn’t see him from half the country away.

“No. You’ll get stuck here and feel obligated to keep doing this and I won’t have it.” Dean kept talking though Cas could hear Sam trying to butt in now. “You’re damn right I’m not Dad, but I’m still in charge. I don’t need you here, Sammy, I can take care of things. And if you bring it up again I’ll get on a plane and fly to Stanford and kick your ass.”

There was quiet over the line for a moment.

“Good. Anymore dumb ideas?” Dean  glanced up at the clock after a moment of listening to Sam. “Shit, Sammy, I’ve gotta go. I’ve got another client coming in in 10 and I’ve gotta finish up a sketch for them still. I’ll call you later, alright?”

Dean shook his head as he hung up.

“Sam alright?” Cas asked, hoping he’d get some particulars about what he witnessed. Dean nodded, but didn’t elaborate.

“Can you still stay and handle some stuff for me?” Cas held back a sigh and nodded as well. Whatever the specifics of Sam and Dean’s conversation were, it seemed that he wouldn’t get to be privy to them. He knew he shouldn’t be shocked by that at all, but he couldn’t help but feel miffed. The feeling only got worse after he left and Dean didn’t show up at his door. He fell asleep with a book open on his chest and Dean’s frown on his mind.

***

It turned out that there were plenty of people who wanted to work in a tattoo parlor, but hardly any of them were artists. The number of college kids who'd walked into the shop and had earnest expressions on their faces as they tried to act like they knew what they were talking about was entirely too high for Dean's liking. They weren't sweet, like Charlie said, and they weren't 'just kids' like Cas insisted, they were a waste of his time. The reputation that Salvation Ink had around Lawrence should have been enough to let people know they were looking for serious artists only, not just someone to clean up and pretend to start apprenticing.

"If I just wanted a damn busboy I'd hire you," Dean told Cas one afternoon after another fresh-faced underclassman had walked out with his snapback in his hands and a dejected look on his face. Cas cocked an eyebrow. "I don't mean that bad towards you," Dean amended. "But what the hell are these kids thinking? Most of them don't even have tattoos!"

"Is that a requirement?" Cas asked, only half serious. Dean just shot him a look.

"It's just getting a little bit ridiculous."

Cas shrugged and flipped the page in the book he was reading; things seemed to have calmed down to the point where he wasn't actually there for anything other than to keep Dean company and today in class Dean had seemed like he was in a good mood. His mood was all over the place within the last week and Cas couldn't keep track of when he should be avoiding him or when he should be relishing in his company, but it seemed that things were a smidgen better when Cas spent time at the shop. Today he was happy to be able to be at the shop with his friend.

"Change the sign. Make it more specific."

"I don't think Walmart makes 'serious artists only, you dweebs' signs for me to put up."

"Make one yourself," Cas said after cutting off a laugh and rolling his eyes. "You're an artist." Dean was so mad he hadn’t thought of the idea himself that he got started on it right away.

Which was exactly why the next day there was a new sign in decorated, American traditional style lettering reading "Tattoo Artist Wanted: Portfolio Required" in the window. Dean had misspelled 'necessary' on his first attempt and Cas had made him do it completely over. Cas had exaggeratedly stood over him watching for mistakes and it’d gotten a laugh out of Dean.

The sign kept away the college students, but it didn't incite anyone else to come in for a while. It sat looking more and more forlorn and Dean's mood worsened by the day when no one came in looking for a job. The worse Dean's mood, the more he begged for things from Cas. The night before he'd spent the night handcuffed to the bed with his ankles tied spread eagle to the bottom posts. There were sores on his wrist that he was trying to keep covered up when the bell on the shop door rang. A dark skinned man a little shorter than Dean walked in, his eyes sharp as he glanced around.

"I'm here about the artist position," he said before Dean could ask what he could do for him. It was then that Dean noticed the messenger bag slung across his chest to sit behind him. Its dark strap had blended in with the jacket the man was wearing.  Dean's eyes lit up in hope. “My name’s Gordon Walker.” 

Dean reached out and shook the man’s hand and he didn’t even have to ask for his portfolio. Gordon pulled it out of his bag and held it out without any further prompting. It was less slick that many people’s portfolios were and it was stuffed to the gills with papers of each and every size and color. There was notebook paper and stencil paper and even part of a fast food bag with a detailed drawing that reached to its edges sticking out of the matte black book. Dean remembered nights before John had interviews back when they lived on the road when he’d watched his dad transfer drawings he’d been doing for the last few weeks whenever they stopped from those sorts of scraps to good sketch paper.

Dean jerked his chin and indicated Gordon should follow him into the office. Gordon shrugged his jacket off and put it across the back of the chair as he sat. It gave Dean a look at the blackwork that went down to his one wrist past the cuff of his one sleeve.

“You looking for permanent work?” Dean asked before he opened the portfolio up at all.

Gordon nodded. “I’m not looking to leave in any hurry and this is what I do. I’m not looking to be anybody’s apprentice and I can’t say I do too well with being bossed around, but I can do the work.”

Dean respected the fact that Gordon said all that without making it sound like he was trying to make any sort of excuse. His voice was level and honest and unashamed. Dean nodded his understanding as he finally started to look at Gordon’s work.

Every drawing illustrated skill and care and an attention to detail that made an artist good. His hand was a little heavier than Dean’s overall and he was a little less traditional than John had been, but Dean could take over those tattoos if necessary. But Dean was far too distracted by exactly what these drawings were to really notice any of that.

"I knew your old man," Gordon told Dean after a few moments of silence during which Dean had not come up with a response to the work. The statement made Dean look up, though he made a show of keeping his expression neutral. “Real sorry to hear about his passing."

"Thanks," Dean murmured. He hunched over a little bit more and made a show of examining Gordon's portfolio, though he still didn’t know how to react. It was a few minutes before either of them spoke.

"Hey, if you wanna look at the portfolio and give me a call about it, no hard feelings. I get that my style might not be for everyone. Not for every shop," Gordon's voice was calm as he said it, the shrug he wasn't performing present in its sound. "I just heard about John and had been hearing rumors about his son being just as good an artist as him. Maybe better. Thought I'd come by and see the place finally since I'm not so far down the road. No harm, no foul if it's not a fit."

The 'I'm used to moving around' that he left off was understood. Dean could remember hearing it in John's voice whenever he and Sam had had to tag along to interviews and people were weary of John's past.

"How'd you know my dad?" Dean asked as Gordon was starting to shrug on his jacket from the back of his chair. Gordon took the jacket back off from where it was half on and he started to roll up one plaid sleeve. Underneath it there were whorls of dark designs of all sorts. But there was one in particular that stood out. It looked like a machete, edges picked out in white ink, aged and faded a bit but still present, to make it pop.

"He was the first to suggest I have the outlines in white and black. I'd had this whole damn arm done before hand otherwise everything would have been that visible. He hadn't even been the artist at the place, just passing through, asking somebody to touch up a piece on his back."

Dean nodded and Gordon started rolling his sleeve back down.

"We moved around a lot before we got this place." Gordon inclined his head in understanding, not going so far as to nod. "He shouldn't have been giving free advice like that; he probably needed a damn job."

That got Gordon to laugh and his teeth were bright against his dark skin. Dean couldn't stop the smile that flitted across his face at the sound. He felt like it'd been forever since he'd made someone else laugh. On impulse, he stuck out his hand for Gordon to shake again. Gordon still had somewhat of a smile on his face as he reached out and took it.

"Gordon Walker, you'll be hearing from me. Sorry I can't give you a job right away, I just-"

"Got a lot on your mind, I understand. Just don't wait too long, Winchester." There was a hint of a joke in his voice, but only so much that Dean knew he wanted to seem like he was in good spirits about the whole thing. Again, it was something Dean recognized as having heard from John all those years moving around and living in the Impala while looking to settle down. He felt something in his chest for Gordon that he couldn't name at all.

He watched him walk out and immediately sat back down to examine the portfolio in front of him. He hadn't been able to see the skill for what it was before; he'd been so distracted by the subject matter of the supernatural and blood and gore that he'd wondered who the hell exactly had wandered into his shop. Now, though, he could see that the lines on all of those monsters were clean and strong and his use of color complemented Dean's own style well. He resolved to call Gordon and hire him within the next few days. With the prospect of a new artists coming to the shop, Dean felt better than he had in weeks. 

That joy lasted only as long as it took him to remember that he had weeks’ worth of assignments to make up in every class still though; he’d been shocked by how many of his professors took sympathy on him and had given him extensions on projects when he’d come right out and asked them. He’d cringed at the money it’d cost him, but brought a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue to Professor Turner in hopes of that convincing him and had wound up hearing all about his sitting Shiva for mother when he’d been in college. It was the most human Dean had ever seen the man, and he’d been taking his classes since his freshman year.

Somehow, though, none of his assignments could keep his interest. He phoned in some of them, hoping that the previous busyness of the shop would kick back in and he could ignore them once again the whole time, and left others only half done. He rooted around in his bag for something that would keep his interest and found nothing. He turned his attention to his desk instead.

He took half an hour to look through the entirety of Gordon Walker’s sketchbook with a fine-toothed comb, both creeped out and impressed even further with every flip of a page. He especially liked the likeness of a vampire head with garlic bulbs shoved in her mouth and a stake impaled through her and made a mental note to ask him about that one in particular. He tried to go back to his homework after that, but still couldn’t. It wasn’t until he was looking at the time and desperately wishing Charlie would show up early when something came to him.

The book of poetry Cas had gotten him, the Bukowski, had never made it home from the shop. It was on the shelf above Dean’s workspace, though its spine was hidden from view so no one would know what it was. Dean hadn’t even thought about it before he was standing up and bringing it off that shelf. It barely registered in his mind that he was voluntarily reading poetry, but he had to swallow a lump in his throat in anticipation as he cracked it open.

He didn’t know how long he sat there absorbing the words on the pages, thinking about Cas saying he’d been an old man by this point, but he did know that when Charlie came into the shop finally, he still had the book on his lap and one of his hands was kneading at his chest right over his tattoo unconsciously.

***

Dean seemed fairly happy with the new artist he’d hired, though Cas had yet to see him. He tried to convince himself that that wasn’t unusual and that people were allowed to have their own schedules, but Cas wanted to meet the man; Dean raved about him and his work. Cas was eager to meet him and looked through hopeful eyes around the shop every time he entered.

Unfortunately, he met his work first.

A portfolio was open on the counter. The visible clutter made Cas smile, thinking of how many times he’d seen Dean doodling in a notebook absentmindedly; maybe he’d finally started to put those ideas into his book.

The sketch, from far away, looked a little bit like an updated version of Vitruvian Man, and Cas was surprised to see such a classical art design in the shop.  Da Vinci wasn’t exactly the normal inspirational fodder for many tattoo artists as far as Cas was aware (which wasn’t very far if he were honest), but it certainly didn’t seem like it would be anything Dean drew from. As he came closer to the drawing he could see on the counter, he could tell it wasn’t by Dean’s hand either. When he was close enough to really examine it, he recoiled.

“Who drew this?” he asked, incredulity thick in his voice. What he had thought was Vitruvian was more reminiscent of a scene of torture, more gruesome than anything any Renaissance artist ever put down. There was no note of the comical or nonsensical as there was in so much art that depicted hell and Cas found it far more frightening than any story of damnation he had ever heard.

The expression drawn onto the man—part human, part skeleton, part viscera‒ was of pure anguish. His mouth in rictus and his eyes closed as much as they could be; they looked as though they were meant to be half torn out. Hooks speared the body and kept it in a spread position, flesh tearing off of it in chunks. Organs were visible. It didn’t need to be in color for the blood and gore of it to be obvious. It was an awful drawing and Cas wanted to look away, but he kept tracing the lines of it with his eyes. He didn’t stop until Dean was right behind him, looking over his shoulder to see exactly what he was talking about.

Cas could feel Dean’s nonchalant shrug.

“Oh, that? That’s the new guy I was telling you about. That’s Gordon’s work. It’s great, right?”

“Dean, this is horrifying,” Cas uttered, stricken.

“Oh, come on,” Dean scoffed. “Yeah, it’s creepy, but it’s good. It’s well done. Look at how detailed he gets with that exposed femur. And I’ve seen how it translates into skin too. Great work.”

“He’s actually tattooed this on someone?”

“He had something similar in his portfolio, yeah,” Dean nodded. Cas did nothing more than look aghast at him. Dean reached past him and flipped a page. This one had a full face portrait of a werewolf. Scary, but in a Halloween way as opposed to the nightmare inducing way of the previous sketch. “But like I said, he’s good. Does a lot of freaky shit, but hey, people think we’re freaks just for having metal in our faces, you know?”

Cas’ stomach dropped and he tried to take a deep breath. It didn’t get rid of the feeling of nausea or the suddenly prickling behind his eyes. This was who Dean had hired and had been so excited about. Cas shook his head. “I can’t believe that you hired a psychopath. Especially to replace your father.”  

Cas didn’t even realize he’d said it out loud until it was entirely too late. He felt Dean go rigid beside him, shutting down every emotion other than anger.

“I’m not replacing my dad. And Gordon’s not a psychopath. Just because you’re so clean cut doesn’t give you a right to judge us.”

“Oh there’s an ‘us’ between you and Gordon?” Cas quirked an eyebrow. He wanted to apologize, knew he should let it go but something in him was spoiling for a fight. Maybe the sick feeling in the pit of him. “How do you think your brother would feel about this man? About this man working at the shop your father made?”

Dean’s eyes flashed and his mouth hardened. The tension in the shop spiked, high and hard and unbearably. Cas knew he’d stepped over the line and he deflated, opening his mouth. Dean cut him off.

“Fuck you, Cas, you don’t know shit about this. And don’t you ever bring up Sam to throw in my face again.” He slammed the sketchbook closed, picked it up, and went on. “Just because I’m letting you fuck me doesn’t mean you know a damn thing.”

It felt like a slap hearing Dean say ‘let you fuck me’ as though Cas were using him for nothing but his own pleasure, taking what he could get from the relationship without Dean having a real say in it. He’d thought that enough that hearing it said made it echo in his skull. That didn’t even touch on the hurt he felt hearing Dean act as though they hadn’t become friends-  _best friends_ , he'd thought.

Cas swallowed and stuck in hands in his pockets. He hunched over slightly and tilted his face up to look Dean in the eye.

“I shouldn’t have said any of that.” He let his words sink in for a moment, though Dean still wore an expression of anger on his face. Cas tried to soften his features even more. “I didn’t mean any of that.”

Dean waited a beat before he sighed and responded, running a hand over his eyes. “Yes, you did.”

“I may have meant that this man seems like a psychopath,” Cas admitted with an inclination of his head. Dean didn’t laugh, didn’t even smile. Cas straightened up. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well, just be glad he’s not back yet. He said he needed to make a cigarette run.”

Cas wrinkled his nose and a challenge rose in Dean’s eye.

“I told him to get me a pack of menthols.”

“You smoke?” Cas didn’t hide his disgust.

“Sometimes. I used to. I’m going to,” Dean nodded. He was still clutching the sketchbook and his knuckles were white. Cas made to step towards him, hoping he could comfort him somehow if he couldn’t shake some sense into him, but he heard ‘let you fuck me’ again and stopped himself. He balled his hand into a fist in his pocket.

“Is there anything I can do to make up for putting my foot in my mouth?” he asked after a moment of watching Dean start to go about his business. Dean grunted to let him know he’d been heard, but he didn’t answer until he’d looked up from fiddling in a drawer.

“Yeah, you could take out the bathroom trash. Restock the paper towels.”

Cas didn’t even argue, just set off to do those things. He finished quickly and stayed quiet the whole time. He couldn’t hardly hear the music that was still playing because he was just hearing the argument on repeat in his head. He didn’t even notice when Charlie showed up with food and a six pack of El Sol. He felt like every time he’d seen her lately she’d been bringing beer for Dean. He didn’t want that to worry him, but it did.

“Cas,” Charlie said in a tone that told him she’d repeated herself at least three times by then. He looked at her finally. “Do you want a part of this sandwich? I got enough for all of us to split. But I did think Gordon would be back by now.”

Dean was already biting into the hunk of sub Charlie’d torn off her him and popping open a beer bottle.

“He’ll be back when he’s back, Charlie,” Dean told her. Charlie pursed her lips but gave a curt nod then turned back to Cas.

Cas thought about staying but shook his head.

“No, I think that I ought to get going. I’ve got a paper to write,” he lied. He actually couldn’t stand the thought of being in the shop or being around Dean at all for the moment. He certainly didn’t want to meet this Gordon Walker and watch him share cigarettes with Dean. All he wanted to do was go home and lose himself in a book. He knew he wouldn’t be able to write; last night when he’d tried to get the final two pieces he needed to finish for a journal submission done, he could only write about green eyes and full lips and loving a man who felt broken in his arms; he hated every word he’d produced.  “But thank you, Charlie.”

Charlie nodded, no suspicion in her eyes. Dean didn’t look at him. Cas grabbed his coat from the couch and turned at the door.

“I’ll see you two.”

He got a wave and a grunt in return and he couldn’t walk to his bike fast enough before he had to press the heels of his hands to his eyes. In that moment he understood how people had to urge to hit out at walls and the like when upset as though maybe if he broke his own skin he’d feel better somehow. He refrained, but he pushed himself so hard as he pedaled home that he thought he might vomit by the time he reached his own door.

It didn’t make him feel any better, just tired and sweaty and in need of shot of vodka or three.

***

Dean showed up at Cas’ the next night, though they hadn’t talked at all since Cas had left the shop. Cas was prepared to apologize for his behavior once again and invite Dean in for a beer and a movie or whatever he wanted to do really, but he didn’t get the chance. Dean was on him, pushing him back and slamming the door closed in seconds.

The kiss was hard and dirty and as much as Cas wanted to pull back and talk on some level, he brought his hands up to Dean’s shoulders and crushed him even closer. Their teeth clicked together as they tried to open their mouths more and touch each other more and it was awful and sublime and Cas thought he might faint from how fast the blood rushed to his cock. He didn’t even care that he could taste faint nicotine on Dean’s mouth, he just wanted more. He moaned into the kiss. Dean’s fingers tightened in Cas’ hair and they were doing nothing more than trying to smash into each other.

They breathed hot on each other when they separated and it didn’t last for long. They couldn’t stop touching and their tongues rolled against each other. Dean thrust his hips forward and Cas matched his movements.

“Dean, wait,” Cast tried to get out, but the words were gasps between kisses. They were wild, somehow careening around Cas’ foyer, heading closer to the foot of the steps. “Talk‒”

“Just this,” Dean responded before taking over their movements. He got them to the stairs, but he didn’t get them started up at all. Instead, he was shoving Cas against the wall and working his hands up his shirt.

“We need to talk, Dean,” Cas insisted. Dean’s name turned into a moan when his hand pinched at one of Cas’ nipples. Dean shook his head and kept moving his hands.

“Not about anything other than how hard I want you to fuck me.”

Cas groaned and his head thudded against the wall. He brought his hands down to whip Dean’s shirt off, thanking God there was only a t-shirt today; he would have ripped a flannel straight from him.

Dean was clutching at Cas’ back and his nails were digging in and Cas ground his hips forward without thinking about it. He pulled Dean’s hips closer with his hands spread across the globes of his ass. Dean smirked and Cas wanted to feel worried but he mostly wanted to chase an orgasm in whatever way he could while Dean looked like that.

“Oh, God, Cas, yes,” Dean breathed out before going back to kissing him. Their lips slid against each other and they licked into each other’s mouths and it felt just as good as it always had every other time. “You’re fucking perfect. You’re so fucking perfect. Help me forget. Help me not think. Just use me.”

The words jarred Cas out of the kiss and he pulled back. He left his hands on Dean, though part of him didn’t want to.

“What?” Dean asked, not knowing what Cas was doing at all.

“Is that what you think I’m doing?” the question was out of Cas’ mouth before he could stop it and he wanted to kick himself. This was not how or when he wanted this conversation to go. He didn’t want to be aching in his jeans or unable to stop touching Dean or anything other than completely rational and level headed. He heard his words from the argument earlier.

“What?” Dean repeated. His eyes seemed a little more focused then.

“Do you think I’m using you?” He did let his hands drop from Dean then.

“What? No. I’m saying I want you to. I want to feel like you are.” Dean’s frustration at having to explain seeped into his voice, just enough that Cas could recognize it. “Like we have been doing. This whole dom-sub thing.”

Cas backed up farther from Dean and just looked at him. It felt like it was the first time he’d really looked at his friend since the first night he’d shown up drunk and they’d fooled around. He actually looked awful. There were dark circles under his eyes and the stubble on his face that Cas had found sexy minutes ago suddenly took on a glow of unkemptness rather than ruggedness. With his shirt off, it was clear that he’d lost weight. Cas didn’t know how he hadn’t noticed until then.

“What the hell are we doing, Dean.”

Dean answered, even though it wasn’t a question. “What we’ve been doing. We’re friends who are having sex. We established this the first time, Cas.”

“I don’t think that’s what’s happening here anymore.”

“Yeah, obviously, we’re not having sex now,” Dean said, sarcasm thick in his voice. “Though god knows why.”

“Because I don’t want to anymore,” Cas snapped. “Because I don’t want my best friend to come to me just to make him forget about his life. I don’t want you to come to me only when you don’t want to think. I don’t want you to _let_ me fuck you.”

“You haven’t had a problem with it until now. You’ve been willing to put me on my back and call me a slut,” Dean snapped back.

Cas felt like he’d been doused in cold water and he turned his face away from Dean for a moment. When he turned back his eyes were burning. “I’ve also been willing to be your friend and it seems like you don’t want that from me anymore. When’s the last time we saw each other outside of class or the shop without us having sex?”

“You knew what this was the minute it started,” Dean retorted. “You haven’t had a problem fucking me so hard I practically forget my own name up until now. You haven’t had a problem giving me orders and shoving me onto my knees to suck you off or any of the other shit we’ve gotten up to, so what the fuck? I’ve been here off and on for damn near a month and you haven’t said a god damn word about it up until now.”

“Dean, I just‒”

“No, you know what?” Dean cut him off. He couldn’t think straight at all and emotions tore through him like a riptide, taking away any sense of softness he had. “I don’t fucking care. If you went and did something stupid like get feelings involved, then fuck it, I’m out. I told you I can’t do relationship bullshit, and I’m definitely not going to try to start with you right now. I’ve got too much other shit to worry about and if you’re not going to be useful anymore then‒”

“Get out.” Cas’ voice was murderous and cold and caught Dean so off guard that he physically swallowed his next words. Cas’ words were bitten off and sharp as he went on, “If that’s all the use I was to you, then get out of my house. And don’t come back. If that’s what this was, then leave.”

Dean goggled at Cas and Cas just gave him a dead-eyed stare back. He pulled on his shirt and he did up the buckle of his belt where it had gotten loosened. He didn’t say anything to Cas as he turned around and grabbed his jacket off the couch. He walked out without another sound.

Cas picked up the nearest thing he could and hurled it towards his door. He didn’t notice what happened to it because he was too busy burying his head in his hands and letting the tears he’d been holding back come. He had no idea how long he sat there on his couch, but the light outside had changed and he was sitting in the dark. It took a while to work up the energy or care to take himself to bed.

He used his cellphone to light his path and it wasn’t until he realized it was shattered that he recognized that he’d thrown an angel figurine his oldest sister had given him when he went off to seminary.

 _Another faith broken,_ he thought bitterly, and dragged himself up to bed.


	11. Chapter 11

Things were not going well.

Gordon Walker, while a great artist, hadn’t been able to commit to full time. Or rather, he had committed to it, but he wouldn’t show up when he was supposed to. The day Dean and Cas had fought, it had been two more hours before Gordon’d come back. It wasn’t the last time a smoke break had taken him that long. Dean didn’t exactly want to let him go yet though. Aside from Gordon, he hadn’t realized exactly how much help Cas had been around there.

And that didn’t even mention how much help Cas had been in that stupid poetry class. He had barely been able to stand it when he had Cas to pass notes with and talk about this stuff to, but now that they weren’t speaking, it was unbearable. Dean had even less of a clue what was going on in that class and they had another poem due and he was going to end up writing bullshit like always. Dr. Meyer was clearly getting tired of it, and so was everyone else. He might just skip it if his grade hadn’t suffered enough already.

Not only that, but Dean missed Cas. He missed him a lot. Part of him missed the sex, which had always been spectacular, but more than that, he missed his friend. Even if for the last month or so that friendship had changed.  Some dumb sci-fi movie about a killer goat had been on TV the night before and no one appreciated his commentary the way Cas would have. His fingers had ached to text him. Instead, he’d rattled off a text to Sam and gotten a _‘what the fuck are you watching?”_ back and it had made him feel hollow like talking to Sam hadn’t in years. He missed Cas’ deadpan snark and the quirk of his eyebrow when Dean did something dumb and he missed his blue eyes dazzling at him.

“Where’s Cas been?” Charlie asked about a week and a half after the fight.  She wore a forcibly mild expression, but her eyes belied her curiosity. Dean had no idea when the two of them had become friends. If he’d voiced that out loud, Charlie would have pointed out that since his father died, he probably had no idea when a lot of things happened; she wouldn’t be wrong.

Dean shrugged and his shoulder muscles were tensed up. Charlie cocked her head and it was so reminiscent of Cas that Dean tensed up even more.

“How’d you fuck it up, Dean?”

“Who says I fucked anything up?” he asked back, not looking up from his work. He backtracked, to cover himself. “And what are you talking about?”

“Of course you fucked it up. No one who was that crazy about you just goes AWOL.”

Dean shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Charlie sighed and she wheeled her chair closer to Dean.

“You know I love you, right?” Dean didn’t look up until Charlie was close enough to him that their knees were touching.

“I know,” he said. He moved to go back to his work, but Charlie’s hand shot out to rest on his leg. She let him go only when he looked up again.

“You and this place probably saved my life, Dean. I mean that. I need you to know that.”

Dean squirmed in his chair and he twirled his pen around in his hand. He didn’t say anything for a moment. Finally he stopped chewing his lip and asked.

“Why are you telling me this, Charlie? Why now?”

Charlie took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She visibly steeled herself.

“I needed you to hear it before I said what else I have to say.”

Dean raised his eyebrows and waited. Charlie wouldn’t look him in the face as she toyed with a lock of hair. She dropped her hands, but started playing with a fraying rip in her jeans. Dean couldn’t remember the last time she looked this nervous. He was about to tell her to spit it out when she breathed deeply again and looked up.

“You’re being an absolute idiot.”

Dean goggled at her.

“You love Cas.” There was no question in her voice at all. She said it as though she were saying that the sky is blue. “He’s your best friend and you love him and there’s no reason for him to not be here unless you fucked something up.”

“I haven’t exactly had a whole lot of time here, Charlie. I mean‒”

“That’s bullshit,” Charlie interrupted. “You have time.”

Her face had looked much gentler moments ago and Dean almost wanted to be angry at her audacity. But he wanted to hear what else she had to say.

“You have time,” she repeated herself. “You have so much time.”

“Even if that were true, I’m not exactly in the best place, you know,” Dean pointed out with venom threading his voice. His desire to let Charlie say what she needed to had passed; he wouldn’t have even let Sam talk to him that way. A small voice in his head told him he just didn’t want to hear the truth; he tried to silence it as quickly as possible.

Charlie nodded, once and to herself and her fists were curled on her thighs.

“Get over it.”

It was the absolute last thing he’d expected to hear her say and he actually gaped at her.

“What did you say?”

Charlie shook her head, her hands coming up to wave Dean off. “No, no, that’s not what I meant!”

Dean scooted his chair back as far as it would go, trying to put as much distance between himself and Charlie as he could. He threw the pen still in his hand down onto his board and gritted his teeth.

“What the fuck did you mean then?”

Charlie stood up and rushed to Dean, kneeling down before him, her eyes full of pleading. “I didn’t mean about your dad. I didn’t mean that at all. God, Dean, I would never say that. I put my foot in my mouth, you’ve seen me do it a million times, I am so sorry.”

Dean couldn’t look at her with all the emotion raw in her voice. He nodded.

“Get up, Charlie, please.”

Charlie did, bringing her chair closer to him so he wouldn’t have to move again. The two of them sat in silence for a moment. Dean’s leg bounced.

“I meant this whole thing with Cas.”

“What whole thing with Cas? There is no thing with Cas.”

“Bullshit, Winchester.” Charlie hoped it would bring some levity to this situation that had spiraled into much more than she’d expected.  “There’s no way there was no thing. He’s crazy about you. You had to know that.”

Dean didn’t say a word and looked away again. The moment stretched on. 

“Hey‒”

“Yes, there was something going on with Cas. But it’s not a thing anymore, alright? It wasn’t ever supposed to be a thing, it was just sex, Charlie.”

Charlie gave him a small, sad smile. “Oh, Dean, you’re an idiot, you know that?” Dean frowned. “You were having sex with him and you thought that was going to go okay?”

“Nothing has been okay in months, Charlie. Nothing.”

Charlie’s heart broke, again, and she wasn’t sure how many times she could have her heart broken by the Winchester boys. Their friendship had meant so much to her over the years, but god, they felt everything so deeply even when they tried not to.  Dean’s face gave away nothing, and neither did his voice, but Charlie had known him too long not to know exactly how he was feeling. She’d known him too long not to know that even though he would try to play it off, he was dying. He’d try to take it back as soon as possible but Charlie wouldn’t let him.

“I know. I know it hasn’t.”

“Charlie, I don’t wanna talk about this. I have work I need to do.”

Charlie started to nod and back up and Dean started to turn to go back to his work. But Charlie couldn’t do it. She turned to look at Dean and saw that though he’d picked up his pen, he hadn’t put it to the paper to start drawing at all.

“Do you love him?”

Dean whipped around to look at Charlie. Panic filled his eyes and Charlie knew. She suspected, but now she knew. But Dean didn’t. He didn’t look at her long before turning back to his work and he hadn’t given her an answer.

“Dean?” she asked again after he hadn’t said anything and he hadn’t started drawing either.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. Charlie only knew that he’d said something. “I don’t know how if I love him. How am I supposed to know? How am I supposed to know that?”

Charlie didn’t have an answer for him and she didn’t know if anyone would.

***

Cas had drank more wine in the last week than he thought he ever had. He was almost ashamed of the number of empty bottles he had in his recycling bin. He felt miserable. He’d barely been able to go to his classes, skipping poetry completely on the off chance that it would force him to interact with Dean and he wasn’t ready for it. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready for it, but he would have to be. They barely had two weeks left of class and he knew that he would have to attend tomorrow.  He hoped that Dean would be the one skipping, since Cas knew it was his week to write and Dr. Meyer would be vindictive enough to make sure he read. Cas hated himself for knowing that and downed half his glass of cabernet in one gulp.

He had Bukowski open on his lap and it felt like torture, but he couldn’t stop. He’d read “Bluebird” at least five times and he couldn’t stop flipping back to it every few pages. He was a little drunk, he knew, but the only reasons the words were blurred were because he couldn’t get rid of the image of Dean’s tattoo from his mind. Nothing he did could shake it from his brain and he had to press the heels of his hands against his eyes hoping. Only caged bluebirds appeared in his vision and he thought that it might be what going mad felt like.

He turned and looked at his clock. _9:18._ He felt maudlin and intoxicated and like he was being an absolute child; he shot the rest of his wine back. He didn’t care that it was so early, he was going to bed. He prayed not to dream of blue wings or green eyes or anything at all, because he knew that tomorrow would be a kind of hell.

His assessment the first thing in the morning was that he hadn’t been wrong. His teeth looked purple and his mouth was dry; he was trying to ignore the headache throbbing around his temples and tell himself he wasn’t hungover. He wouldn’t be able to convince himself it was true until he had consumed a cup of coffee and a plate of greasy bacon and a side of hash browns from the overpriced breakfast joint on campus.

He couldn’t focus on his morning class at all and Dr. MacLeod had called him out, her lilting Scottish accent sharp when she lectured him on the importance of Yeats to everything he’d ever loved. Cas somehow wasn’t even surprised that she’d said such a thing. It wasn’t even as though he doubted her, but it certainly wasn’t the time for him to explain that.

He had no idea what to do with his time between the end of that class and the start of poetry, but he knew that he didn’t want to chance running into Dean. The library seemed the best bet, but he couldn’t concentrate on reading, no matter what he tried. For once, he was one of the students in the library just scrolling through his phone, playing games. None of them held his attention either, and he resorted to browsing through his contacts. His most recent contacts were all volunteer work related if he looked past the fact that Dean’s name was there. But if he kept looking down the list, he saw a name that surprised him: Anna. He’d missed a call from his little sister and never gotten ahold of her.

He slung his bag over his shoulder and headed back out of the library as the phone was dialing.

“Hello, Cas.” Cas could hear the smile in Anna’s voice, could picture her with a paintbrush tucked behind her ear and the exact way her lips curved up when she talked to him. The two of them hadn’t grown up attached at the hip‒ not as he had with his twin, Hannah‒ but there had always been a kindred spirit between them. They’d understood each other before they’d even ever known why.

“Hello, Anna.” Cas kept his voice steady though for some reason, he couldn’t stop his hands from trembling a little. Hearing Anna’s voice just reminded him that he’d been on his own throughout all of this. He didn’t have to be.

“What’s wrong?”

Part of him longed to tell her ‘nothing, just a lot of work at school’ and pass it off, ask her about her life, her art, her classes, her girlfriend. He even started to, and then sighed.

“Actually, Anna, do you have a moment to listen to me?”

“I always have a moment to listen to my big brother when he needs me,” she assured him. “Let me put my pastels away and sit so I can really listen.”

“If you’re working‒”

“Cas, I’m not. I’m just making a piece for Ruby’s birthday next month. I want to know what’s going on with you,” she interrupted him. The lightness that had been in her voice had tapered off. There were so many times that she acted as though she were the older sibling; when they’d been younger, it had irritated Cas to no end, but more and more he was grateful for it when all he had was her and Gabriel to keep him connected to his childhood.

Cas nodded and took a deep breath and then the entire story of Dean and this semester was spilling out. He had no idea how long he talked, but Anna didn’t interrupt him to do anything other than give small reactions: “oh, no,” “that’s awful,” “oh, Cas.”

“Why is this so difficult?”

“Because you love him,” Anna stated simply.  She waited a beat for it to sink in. “Just because you’re mad at him doesn’t mean you don’t love him.”

“I know that,” Cas said.

“You can’t see, but I’m rolling my eyes,” Anna told him. Cas frowned. “And I know you’re frowning about that.”

Anna laughed when Cas sputtered, offended.

“I know you.”

“I know that,” Cas repeated. He smiled as he did. Neither of them spoke for a moment.

“Does he love you?”

Cas wasn’t smiling then. He dropped his head and brought his free hand to his brow. “I don’t know. That’s the problem. I’m not sure he can right now.”

“Then wait.” Cas straightened up. It was so simple. “I know you don’t want to hear that, because he’s your friend and you miss him, but Cas, if you love him, maybe you just have to wait for him to be ready. Maybe he won’t ever be, maybe you’ll only ever get your friend back, but it’s better than nothing. Remember, you’ve been through worse things.”

“’Be strong, sayeth my heart, for I am a soldier; I have seen worse sights than this’” Cas quoted.

“You nerd,” Anna teased.

 He bit at his thumb nail and remained quiet.

“Cas?”

“What if I lost my best friend?”

“Well,” Anna started, “there’s still me.”

Cas’ heart swelled and he couldn’t stop from grinning. “I do miss you.”

“You know that Chicago isn’t that far away from Kansas, right? You could come see me. I could probably convince Ruby to play nice for a while.”

“After graduation, I’ll see what I can do.”

“That’s what you should be worried about, not some guy. Not that he’s just some guy, I know. Ruby was never just some girl for me, either. ” Anna’s voice shifted. She got even softer as she went on. “He sounds amazing. And lucky to have you.”

“I’m not so sure about that part,” Cas told her. She scoffed at his self-deprecation and Cas lightened up. “He’s also incredibly hot, so he does have that going for him.”

It sent Anna into squeals of laughter and demands that Cas send her a picture. He promised he would when he hung up and the conversation veered away from the mess he’d made of his friendship and into how well Anna was doing. It made him happy to hear. If it also made him feel the tiniest bit sorry for himself, he wasn’t going to ever admit it to anyone.

It felt good just to remind himself that he could talk to someone normally; this entire semester he felt as though the only person he’d talked to freely had been Dean. With everyone else, their conversations seemed to come out of necessity. Dean had made him see that and now he couldn’t go back to a life of conversations that only dealt with academics and polite small talk with the folks at the soup kitchen. Now, he’d seen he was still capable of making friends and he didn’t want to lose that. He didn’t want to go back to the life he’d had, because if he were honest, ever since he’d left seminary, he’d felt something missing. It wasn’t God; it was the sense of belonging and faith and he had found it in having someone depend on him to be capable.

When Anna had to hang up, telling him that she was getting another call and that she was serious about him coming to visit, Cas marveled. He’d had no idea that calling Anna would lift him so much. He certainly hadn’t had any idea that it would lead him to such a personal revelation. He sat on the bench and breathed in the spring air and took stock in his life.

With a glance at his phone to check the time, he stood up. Anna was right‒ he loved Dean and their fight didn’t change that, so he would be his friend and wait.  There was no reason for him to act as though he were scared of talking to Dean, even if it were to be awkward between the two of them at first. He would go to poetry class and be a student. He would be himself, just as he had always tried to be.

Cas’ conviction lasted long enough to get him up to the classroom and pull out a notebook and pen. Once he stopped moving and started trying to write, he lost it and just felt his nerves spike up again. All he could write was _fuck_ and he wanted to laugh at himself. He wondered if he could call Anna back and be re-convinced that he was fine and have her tell him he was an idiot and make it better. Dean would have told him he was an idiot.

Fortunately, Dean was one of the last people to walk into the classroom, so he couldn’t say anything to Cas, let alone tell him he was an idiot. Cas could hardly look at Dean, too much of a chicken to do so, no matter what he’d told himself earlier. He stole glances at him instead. He looked much like he had the night they’d fought: exhausted and unhappy but still painfully beautiful. When Dr. Meyer walked in, a note of nervousness came into Dean’s expression as well. Cas’ heart lurched; he wanted to be able to reassure Dean that it would be okay and this would be the last poem he’d ever have to write if he wanted. Instead he just kept silent and looked down.

Every time he looked away, Dean looked up at him. They wouldn’t make eye contact, but try as they might, neither of them could stop checking  on the other.

Dean’s hands shook with the knowledge of the poem in his bag. He’d written two, after the conversation with Charlie and a night lacking in sleep but excelling in whiskey. He’d forced himself to drink until he felt honest and as much as he hated it, it worked. He’d sat down with a pen and scrawled words that barely made sense to him into his sketchbook. Then he’d finally been able to pass out, dragging himself up to his bed and falling asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

When he’d woken up, he’d felt terrible, but he’d went immediately to his desk to read what he’d written; he had only a fuzzy memory of certain words. Even if the words hadn’t made sense to him last night, they did now, though he could see where he wanted to clean up some of the language. What he ended up with was something similar only in feeling to his drunken scrawl but he still felt like it was raw. Reading it out to a class would be like exposing an open wound and he was sure he couldn’t do it. He immediately got out his poetry notebook and jotted down something idiotic and simple like everything else he’d done for that class had been. That, he could read and be comfortable with.  He could get by with a D in a gen- ed class when he was so close to his degree. He wasn’t graduating with any honors. There wasn’t anyone he wanted to impress now anyway; Sam and Charlie would pretend to be proud of him either way and Dad was gone and Cas… well, Cas probably didn’t care anymore, Dean reasoned.

Dean had settled on reading his crappy poem when it was his turn as soon as Dr. Meyer started talking in class. She didn’t seem to want to torture Dean and she chose someone else to read their poem first. Dean listened to Alfie read a poem that he’d probably meant to be deep but sounded like a bunch of crappy emo lyrics with only feigned interest. After the semester he’d had, some 19 year old’s pining for a girl who didn’t know he existed was low on his list of things that would get him emotional. He kept his mouth shut during critiques though. He was shocked when Cas didn’t.

“It feels a little melodramatic,” he said with an apology clear in his voice. “I think more concrete examples would maybe help that.”

“I didn’t think it was melodramatic,” Aidan, another freshman boy in the class countered. “I think it sounded real. It is painful.”

Cas wore a mild expression and just shrugged. The rest of the class continued on, most agreeing with Aidan, but Dean was too busy dealing with the fact that he and Cas had caught each other’s gaze. There was a moment of hesitation and Dean nearly looked away, but he didn’t. Cas made a show of rolling his eyes, his mouth set in a line that told Dean he was thinking _children_ , as he had been wont to write in notes they’d passed in class before. He then gave Dean a hesitant smile back. Dean had to look away.

He didn’t see Cas’ expression fall.

“Mr. Winchester, why don’t you go next? We’ve been robbed of hearing your work for a few weeks now,” Dr. Meyer said without bothering to hide her derision. Dean saw Cas glare at her and he made a split second decision.

He was going to read his real poem.

He was in love with Castiel Milton and he was going to read a poem he’d written for him in front of this whole class and probably make a scene like a cliché teenager but he didn’t care.

He thought about the way Cas had been there for him throughout this semester and with his dad and now, even though Dean had been an absolute asshole to him, he was still on his side. He deserved to get the sappy grand gesture and see Dean try to be honest. He deserved more than Dean could give him and he had no idea how to tell him that and this was going to be the best he could do.

He nodded at Dr. Meyer absently and started to rifle through his bag. His leg bounced but his nerves didn’t show in his hands at all as he brushed past his sketchbook to his notebook and drew it out. He looked at the crappy shorter poem he’d written one last time and had to tell himself not to back down now. He flipped back to the page his real poem was on and stared. He wouldn’t look up at anyway and he took a deep breath before he started to read:

“Your eyes are the same blue as the ink I have to stare at when inking up my little brother’s shoulder  
The same blue that’s on my fucking chest and I swear it’s not for you.  
It’s not.  
All I have to offer is this stupid fucking poem and scarred and inked skin and a bunch of shit I shouldn’t know‒  
       how much Jim Beam a 210 pound of muscle man can drink before he passes out  
       the sound of a Colt 1911 in the midday sunshine of Oregon  
       the way every single major highway in America looks the same from the passenger seat of the only thing you still think of as home when you haven’t eaten in a day whether        you’re in Arizona or Minnesota‒  
and no idea what the hell I’m doing  
But I’ve got steady hands  
and I suddenly don’t like any other shade of blue”

Dean’s voice wavered slightly throughout the reading and Cas felt his mouth go completely dry. He wasn’t sure he was still breathing and he was shaking as much as Dean wasn’t‒ _steady hands_ , he thought fleetingly, nearly hysterical. Dean wouldn’t look at him, but everyone else kept stealing glances between the two of them, not sure what to do but very aware that something was going on from how deliberately they weren’t looking at each other. The only person who seemed oblivious was Dr. Meyer.

“So, what do we think?” she asked. She missed the fact that Dean was stone faced and Cas’ hands were clenched and every other person in the room was doing whatever they could‒ Tracy was taking her pen apart meticulously, Alfie was playing with a spare thread on his cuff, Krissy  was faking being engrossed in a doodle‒ not to look at anyone else. The silence held long enough that Cas knew, without a doubt, that Dean was drumming his fingers against his jumping thigh.

After another moment of strained silence, Dr. Meyer spoke up again. “Alright, I’ll start. It feels unfinished.” Cas was sure Dean was going to stand up and punch the woman in the mouth. He didn’t. He didn't even react. “Or maybe unformed? Have you thought about different formats? I don’t want to tell you to go back to rhyming necessarily, because we all know how that turned out, but‒”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Cas asked, rage unconcealed in his voice. Every head snapped toward him, including Dean’s. Cas was too busy glaring at Dr. Meyer to notice other than a vague prickling sensation at the attention. Dr. Meyer let out a stuttering “excuse me” and Cas repeated himself. She then threw a hand dramatically over her heart. “All semester all you’ve ever said to him- to us- is to write something honest. I’ve taken issue with it because confessional poetry is‒ no, that’s not the point. Every single class period you’ve fed us platitudes about finding our truth and the one time a student you’ve made perfectly clear you don’t care for does that, you tell him it’s unfinished?”

“Mr. Milton‒”

Cas didn’t know when he made the decision to do so, but he was standing up. “No, I’m unfinished,” he interrupted. He heard someone snort, but couldn’t take the time to see who it was. “Yes, he used the word ink too much, but if you can’t see that it’s the most God damn important thing in his life and that poem was the best thing any of us have given you all semester, then you lack the requisite understanding of other people that it takes to be a human being let alone an artist!”

Cas had always gotten quieter and quieter until his voice was a downright hiss when he’d really argued with people, but not this time. The man inside of him who never got to be a preacher had found a way out and he was panting as though he’d given a speech of hellfire and sin. Dr. Meyer was shocked to the point where she was silent. Cas knew he had about ten seconds for that to continue and began scooping his things into his bag. He threw it over his shoulder and crossed the classroom until he was next to Dean.

“I need to talk to you,” he breathed out, sure that everyone could still hear him. Dean nodded numbly and began to pack his things up as well. Dr. Meyer finally found her voice again.

“Mr. Milton, I have never‒”

“Go ahead and fail me. I don’t care,” Cas cut her off again. “And by the way, your poems suck.” With that last remark, he walked out of the room and down the hallway. He didn’t stop walking until he was down the two flights of stairs and standing outside the building. Whereas it had felt warm earlier, now Cas couldn’t stop shivering. He wasn’t sure if it was from his rage or his shock at himself or just pure emotion roiling off him.

Cas didn’t know Dean had followed him right out.

“What the absolute fuck, man? What is wrong with you?” Dean demanded. The door slammed behind him. Cas went to answer but couldn’t because Dean’s mouth was on his.

The kiss was everything Cas had wanted from their relationship before. Dean was absolutely present in it, 100% of him pouring emotion into the meeting of their mouths. Cas thought he might suffocate in the best possible way and he could feel tears springing up behind his eyelids. He gripped Dean’s shoulders and dragged him even closer, pulling until his back hit the side of the building. Cas thought he might have knocked his head against the concrete, or he really was losing oxygen because he felt so dizzy with Dean’s lips still on his, Dean’s hands still on his shoulders, Dean’s hips pressed against his stomach.

“We can’t do this here,” Cas got out. Dean pulled back.

“I’m sorry, shit, I’m so sorry,” he shook his head as he stepped back from Cas. He ran a hand through his hair. “That. I mean, that wasn’t supposed to be like that.”

“What was it supposed to be?”

Dean looked up. Cas could feel that he looked destroyed and he was on the verge of a breakdown. Dean chewed his lip for what felt like forever.

“It was supposed to say that I think I might love you. Not that I want you. Although I do, it’s just‒“

“Dean, stop talking,” Cas told him. Dean immediately shut up. Cas couldn’t help but press another kiss to Dean’s mouth, quick and chaste and then pull back. He sighed. “Do you think for one second that‒”

“Dude, that was awesome!” Cas and Dean both whipped around to see that Aflie had burst through the doors and was looking excitedly at Cas. “You completely killed her! I mean, metaphorically, not literally, even though let’s be serious, she’s probably old enough to die from humiliation, right?”

Cas and Dean both blinked at the younger man. Dean was the first one to speak up.  “We’re kind of in the middle of something, kid.”

“Oh, crap, my bad,” Alfie winced. He raised a hand in apology and walked between Cas and Dean. “It was great though! Have a fun life or whatever,” he called out as he fiddled with his bike lock. It took him a few seconds to get the bike unhooked and then he was riding away.

“Wow, that killed the moment,” Dean said. Cas murmured his agreement. “Do you wanna finish this conversation somewhere else so there aren’t any more teenage interruptions?”

“Yes, please,” Cas said, “There are things I need to tell you.”

Cas almost expected them to hold hands as they walked, but they didn’t. In fact, they didn’t even speak to each other as they headed toward the parking lot. It was only when they got to the car that Dean and Cas caught each other’s eye.

“I’ll bring you back to get your bike.”

Cas nodded and opened the passenger door and slid in. Dean started the car and they were once again quiet. At the first red light they hit, Dean asked.

“So what did you need to talk to me about?” he tried for lighthearted, but it fell completely flat. Cas gave him a small, almost sad, smile.

“Not while you’re driving. Once we’re at the shop we can talk. If it’ll just be the two of us.”

Dean glanced at the clock and nodded. “Gordon took off for good, I think, and Charlie doesn’t get in until her last computer class is done, which isn’t for another couple hours.”

Cas nodded in understanding and he tried to ignore the fact that the two of them were essentially pretending that they hadn’t just had an emotional revelation in public, one that broke the fragile connection that was being rebuilt after a week of consciously trying to pretend they’d never been friends. Tension was thick in the car.

When they arrived at the parlor, Dean fished the keys out of his pocket and entered before Cas and turned the lights on. He turned to look at Cas and something in his face shifted and then Cas was crossing the two steps to him and with a quick “fuck it” was kissing him again.

It was passionate and messy and they bumped their noses against each other more than they ever had and neither of them could keep their hands still. It only lasted for a few moments before Cas broke it off.

“I’m sorry,” he said, chest rising and falling rapidly. Dean was in no better shape. He ran a hand through his hair. “That wasn’t what I wanted to do.”

A look of hurt flashed across Dean’s face and Cas shook his head.

“Not what I intended to do,” he corrected.

“What had you ‘intended’ to do?” Dean asked, failing at keeping his voice neutral.

“I wanted to explain.” Cas took a deep breath before he plunged ahead. “I should have never done anything to you that night you came to my house. We should have never slept together.”

Dean’s head whipped up and the hurt radiated from him. Cas' head rattled back and forth.

“I knew I was falling for you before we ever did anything, Dean. I tried to pretend I wasn’t, but I couldn’t pretend after that first night. But I couldn’t not help you. If you needed to lose yourself in sex and you asked me to, I couldn’t tell you no.”

“Jesus, Cas,” Dean sighed. He ran a hand down his face. He cast his eyes to the floor and they stayed there. Cas could hear the ticking of the clock as he watched Dean deliberately not look at him. He schooled himself not to chew his lip as he saw the emotions warring on Dean’s face.

Finally, Dean looked up, his eyes raw. He was trying not to let tears form in them but he was not succeeding. His voice was barely above a whisper when he spoke.

“Why’d you let me do that?”

Cas couldn’t do anything but stare at Dean for a moment. Here he was, trying to explain to him exactly how he’d been a terrible friend, and Dean was apologizing. Not only apologizing, but agonizing over it. Dean ran his hand over his face, trying to mask that he was wiping away tears that had fallen.

The watery stoicism Dean had when he met Cas’ eyes was what sent Cas forward until he could put his hands on Dean’s jaw and look him hard in the eyes.

“You did nothing wrong, Dean.” His voice was firm when he said it. Cas qualified himself before Dean could go on. Cas shook his head. “No more than I did. I did it for my own selfish reasons and you were hurting and I took‒”

Dean was kissing him before Cas could keep on.

Cas pulled away first. He looked stricken as he did.

“We have to talk this out, Dean,” he said, but when Dean went to kiss him again, he let him. Cas let him kiss him and walk him backwards until his legs hit the counter that displayed all the jewelry. Cas was half bent over it backwards, clutching at Dean’s shoulders and feeling the muscles there shift under his shirt before Dean pulled away.

“I don’t wanna talk. I just want to kiss you. I’m not good at talking. I’m good at this. This is practically all I’m good at.”

Cas kept him from going on or kissing him again by putting a hand to the middle of his chest and pushing him backwards. 

“That’s why we have to talk.” Cas wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and straightened up fully. He looked Dean square in the eye. “Who told you that you weren’t good at anything else? Who ever made you feel that way?”

Dean barked out an unpleasant laugh. He tried to scoff away Cas’ earnest, inquiring look but he didn’t succeed. Instead, he looked away and ran a hand through his hair.

“Come on, Cas, you’ve seen my grades. You’ve seen how I can’t keep this place in order,” Dean said. "I mean, you've seen my poems. You heard what I wrote today."

"Dean, what you wrote today was perfect, I can't imagine having heard anything better from you."

"Jeez, Cas, thanks for the vote of confidence"

"Dean, that's not what I meant and you know it," Cas snapped a little. Dean looked sheepish and Cas went on. "I cannot imagine hearing anything I wanted to hear more from you. That was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. And real and-"

"Cas, I think you're a little biased."

"Who cares? Words were made for seduction, Dean, that's why we write poetry. haven't you ever seen _Dead Poet's Society_?" Cas couldn't believe he was joking at a time like this but he was.

"What?" Dean asked incredulous. "Seduction? You think that was about-"

"No, Dean, no. None of this is coming out right," Cas opined. Dean raised his eyebrows. "I know I'm supposed to be the one who is better at words but I cannot find them right now. I can't find them at all to tell you what that meant to me."

Dean looked down, shy and nervous again.

"I am in love with you," Cas told him. He said it without pity and without asking for anything in return. "I wanted you to know is all. If it doesn't change anything then I understand. But we've only been apart for the week and it's been awful for me. I've missed you terribly."

"I already told you I loved you," Dean whispered. Cas barely heard him. Dean cleared his throat and repeated himself. "I already told you I love you. It wasn't a lie. That poem was the best way I knew how to tell you. I got drunk and tried to write and it came out nonsense, but I fixed it. I fixed it and I want to fix this and I don't know what the hell you did to me, but I can't stop talking, Cas. I just need you to know how I feel."

Dean had made his way closer to Cas the entire time he'd been speaking and his words had started to come faster. He reached a hand out and caught at Cas' waist and Cas almost backed up.

"Dean, I told-"

"I just want to touch you. I'm not going to try to kiss you right now. You said we needed to talk and now I've talked but I need to touch you. I need to."

Cas nodded and he brought his own hands up and he wrapped his fingers around Dean's arms. His fingers dug in hard and he couldn't stop himself. He wanted to make sure this was all real and it was really Dean in front of him saying all these things.

"Dean, what do we do from here then?"

Dean looked struck. He couldn't stop searching Cas' face, his eyes roaming from Cas' to his lips and sweeping over his cheekbones and the stubble coming in on his jaw. Cas felt every movement of Dean's eyes. They sent trails of burning on his skin.

“What the hell makes you think I know?”

The mood was broken completely and Cas couldn’t stop himself from laughing harder than he had in a long, long time. It was such a typical Dean response and Cas loved him all the more for it. Dean’s goggling turned into him laughing and soon both of them were clutching at each other in hysterics. Cas felt tears forming in his eyes and he wiped them away still smiling as he tried to sober up. Dean did a better job of it than him. They’d broken apart, though they were still close.

“Seriously, I’ve got no idea what we do from here. I told you that I suck at relationships. Can’t we just make out?”

“Is that what you want?” Cas asked.

“To make out? Yeah, enough of this talking crap, I’ve put my foot in my mouth five times already‒”

“No, Dean, I meant a relationship. Is what you want a relationship?”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck and looked away but Cas kept his eyes glued to him. He could wait for Dean to be ready to answer him, but he wanted to see every little twitch he made in case he gave something away. Cas thought he might be holding his breath; he’d gotten so wrapped up in hearing Dean say that he loved him that everything else about this situation fell away. It all came rushing back now. When Dean finally looked up, Cas let out the breath he had indeed been holding.

“If I’m ever gonna try it out, I can’t imagine it not being with you.”

Cas broke into a grin and Dean smiled back.

“Are we done talking now?” Dean asked finally. “I’ve got way better ways for us to spend our time.”

Dean leered and yanked Cas close to him, their lips brushing and their breath mingling. The kiss that Dean started was deep and hot and Cas felt his blood start flowing south. He broke the kiss and backed away.

“I’m not fucking you in your shop, it’s completely unsanitary.”

Dean started laughing and he blushed and Cas was so happy to see it that something in him soared. Whatever cage he’d been stuck in, Dean had opened and he felt freer than he ever had. Whether his flight was winged on by angels or bluebirds, he didn’t know, and he didn’t care as long as Dean kept smiling.

***

“Have you checked your grades yet?” Cas demanded as soon as Dean walked through the door. Dean’s eyebrows came up and Cas could read that if he wasn’t holding a paper bag of food in his mouth he would be telling him to ‘chill the fuck out.’

As it was, Dean took the bag out of his mouth and just shook his head.

“I got you one of those pork sandwiches you liked so much the other night. Oh, and by the way, Jo says it’s about time for you to show your face back in the roadhouse so she can congratulate you on getting me to commit.”

Cas snorted. “I think that’s why I’m avoiding it. Instead, I’ll just let you get me food. Why haven’t you checked your grades yet? I need to know what you got in poetry.”

“Cas, your GPA is going to be at least a full grade and a half higher than mine, you don’t have to rub it in,” Dean pointed out. He sounded annoyed and Cas got off the couch. He took the bag from Dean’s hand.

“Shut up, you know I don’t care about your GPA. I just want to know what she gave you. I want to know if we need to write a letter about how she ought to be fired and run completely out of town, honestly, because she is trying to give me an incomplete and‒”

“I got a C+.”

While Cas had been talking, Dean had pulled out his phone. Cas hadn’t noticed at all that Dean was typing frantically. He looked shocked, mouth open staring at his screen. He still looked stunned when he looked up.

“I’m graduating with a 3.12.”

Cas threw his arms around Dean without thinking. The bag of food slapped him on the back and it probably crushed both their sandwiches but Cas didn’t care.

“I’ve got a 3.7 so you shut your mouth,” Cas said as he pressed a kiss to Dean’s mouth.

“Why don’t you shut my mouth for me?” Dean asked, quirking an eyebrow up and leering. Cas let the bag of food drop to the floor and he kicked it away. “Damn, Cas, I just got that. I thought you were hungry.”

Cas brought his hands up to Dean’s plaid and he ripped it open, taking care to make sure none of the buttons popped off. “I think I’ve got an idea to work up even more of an appetite and get you to shut your mouth.” He yanked Dean into a hard, searing kiss before pushing him away again and smirking. “Come on, Winchester, I’ve got things for us to do.”


	12. Epilogue

Dean’s diploma still hadn’t come in the mail by early August. They’d graduated two months ago but nothing official other than his transcripts had come. He had the certificate that said the diploma was coming in the frame he’d found in the back of John’s closet that had held a note about how proud he was of him though, and that frame was in the shop. If anyone asked, Dean would deny the note John’d left and he’d certainly deny the fact that he had bawled like a child about how badly he missed his dad when he read it; as far as anyone else was concerned, the note didn’t exist. As far as anyone who didn’t know better in the shop was concerned, nothing had changed for Dean in the last few months.

Certain people however‒ Charlie, Sam, Jo, and the new guy, Benny‒ knew exactly how much had changed. 

Dean still missed John something terrible; there were still days when he snapped at everyone and everything, no matter how small the offense. Personally, there were still days when he felt like he’d rather die than get out of bed and face other people, but he would still never admit that and they were getting fewer and further between.

But somehow, and not just because of the piece of paper that was coming to him in the mail soon, he felt like he deserved to be in charge. The uncertainty and despair of the last two months of the semester had left and things had smoothed themselves out.

Sam was home for the summer, doing an internship at a law firm and helping out around the shop when he could. He’d even done a few touch ups for Dean, though he wouldn’t touch a machine for anyone else, no matter how many times Dean had asked.

Charlie had taken Jo on as an apprentice piercer, and it was amazing to watch their interactions now. Charlie was as professional as Dean had ever seen her, barely flirting with Jo during work hours. She hadn’t even made any untoward comments when Dean volunteered to be Jo’s guinea pig for her first nipple piercing, though Charlie’d begged him when she was being trained and he’d refused. He didn’t exactly tell either of them what had made him change his mind, but he liked the silver rings in his chest now that they were healed properly. Cas liked them too, and Dean especially liked that.

Their agreement to take it slow hadn’t lasted very long. No matter how messed up the circumstances surrounding their sexual relationship had been and no matter how much they told themselves waiting would make it better and make them stronger, they couldn’t help but ignore it. The two of them were in love with each other and they both knew it, even if neither of them had said it out loud since the day Dean had read his poem and confessed. It hadn’t stopped for either one of them.

Cas had come back from seeing his sister Anna for a week and he and Dean had picked up as though they’d never fought, their friendship feeling more like it had before they started to sleep together. The dynamics were different than they had been, less urgent, less detached, less about need.  It felt like one of the healthiest relationships Dean had ever been in and instead of terror, he felt hopeful. He’d already been through so much; something good shouldn’t make him nervous. And Cas was something good.

Dean couldn’t seem to get him out of his head as he worked on a stencil he was finishing up for a client scheduled to come in later that night. He was perfecting the tip of the left angel wing when the bell above the door tinkled.  Dean set down his pen and looked up expecting to see Benny coming in early to get some work done.

“Cas, what are you doing here?”

Cas cocked an eyebrow up. He hadn’t been spending as much time at the shop as he had before; he was volunteering more now that school was out and he was in the middle of teaching a short course on creative writing at Johnson County Community College before he started his MFA in the fall. Dean usually knew when he was going to stop by now.

“The sign has always said walk-ins welcome,” was Cas’ response. It made Dean bark out a laugh, but Cas didn’t join him. Dean stared.

“Wait, are you serious? You came in because you want a tattoo?” Dean had to stop himself from gaping when Cas nodded. “And you decided not to say anything about this at dinner last night, or in bed, or I don’t know, any time you’ve seen me in the past week?”

That put a teasing smile on Cas’ face. “I wanted to surprise you.” His smile widened as he shrugged. “And I didn’t want you to try to talk me out of it.”

Cas set his bag down at the counter and walked back to Dean’s work station. For a moment Dean thought he was going to lean down and kiss him, and he was shocked when he didn’t mind that idea. Cas just sat across from him and started shrugging off the vest he was wearing. He undid the bottom half of his button up as well.

“So what I’m thinking‒”

“Cas, I’m still going to try to talk you out of this.” Cas looked up at Dean sharply. Dean sighed and ran a hand over his face. “I know, it’s your decision and it’s your body‒”

“Exactly‒”

“But it’s not about that. “

Cas hesitated a beat, his hands rubbing down his thighs nervously. “Then what is it about?”

“I don’t want you doing this for me. I don’t want you to have me permanently mark your body and then when I do something to fuck up what we’ve got going on, resent me and hate the art. I don’t want to run that risk of putting something on someone that they’ll hate later because I’m an asshole.”

Cas stood up then and stopped in front of Dean. He took a hand and put it under Dean’s chin, forcing him to look up at him. Dean’s eyes were pleading, but Cas’ expression was soft, his eyes sure.

“I’m not going to tell you that you’re not an asshole, because you are sometimes. So am I. And I can’t promise that something won’t happen that will take us apart, because I can’t see the future.  But being friends with you, being _with_ you, this semester and seeing your strength and who you are has marked me already, Dean. I am in love with you, and even if I’m ever not, it still will have marked me.”

He let his hand drop from Dean’s face, but he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to Dean’s lips. Dean barely had time to respond in kind.

“And besides, the tattoo doesn’t have anything to do with you or us being together. It’s something that I’d like for me.” Cas sat back down and decided he needed to take his shirt off fully.

Dean still hadn’t said anything, in fact, he hadn’t moved yet. He was staring at Cas stunned. Cas barely blinked back at him.

“Cas‒”

“No.” That was all Cas said for a moment. Dean’d mouth dropped and Cas simply smirked. “Whatever you’re going to say, I am going to ignore. I want this tattoo. I want you to give it to me. Are you going to do it or not?”

It took Dean only moments to break into a smile.

“I wasn’t going to argue with you anyway,” Dean lied. Cas grinned back at him. His disbelief of the lie was obvious. Cas pulled something out of his pocket.

“I stole this from one of your magazines a few weeks ago,” he admitted. He shoved the paper at Dean. “I just thought the lilacs were beautiful.”

Dean conceded that he wasn’t wrong, but he couldn’t believe that Cas was asking this of him. He couldn’t believe Cas wanted this. Or that he’d been hiding it from him.

“Plus, one of the first pieces of yours I noticed was a flower. It seems fitting that I ask you to do this.”

“You’ve just got an argument for everything, don’t you?” Dean asked, only briefly looking up from the design Cas had given him.

“Yes, as it turns out, your brother is probably going to be a phenomenal lawyer. I consulted with him about this. And all those people who make a claim that literature and law are so similar might be onto something.”

“I knew you two nerds would get along too well. I screwed myself over with that.”

Cas rolled his eyes and smiled; Dean could see it through his lashes.

“Alright, well, if you’re sure about this tattoo, then I’ll do it. But you’ve gotta get dressed.”

Cas’ brow furrowed. “You said you’d do it.”

“Yeah, and I can’t just free hand it,” Dean told him. “I’ve gotta get a sketch and a stencil and it’s gonna take me some time. For being such a smart guy you’re kinda slow on the uptake there, Milton.”

“Oh, right,” Cas nodded and started to button up his shirt again. “I knew that. Really.”

Dean just smirked. He wheeled his chair over to his station with the magazine page still in his hand. He was getting out his sketching materials when he realized Cas was just hovering over by the tattoo chair. Dean jerked his head to the side to tell him he ought to come a little closer.

“If it’s your tattoo, you’ve got to tell me what you want.”

“That design.” Cas pointed at the paper with a look of ‘duh’ on his face.

“Yeah, Cas, I know. But this is more of a template. It’s not going to be exact because I’m not that artist. I’m me.”

Cas had gone to get Charlie’s wheeled stool and rolled it over to when Dean was sitting. He sat down in it and leaned over Dean’s shoulder.

“Then draw what you’d want to draw for me in that design.”

Dean shook his head again. “That’s not how this works. This is your tattoo.”

“But you’re the artist. It’s your art.”

“But it’s going on your body and that’s important. I don’t want anything that you’re not in love with to be permanently on you. You help me whenever you can. You’ve got to make the ultimate decision about this because it is yours.”

“Do you give such impassioned speeches to every client?” Cas teased. Dean pursed his lips up and Cas dropped his expression into an apologetic one. “I understand.”

“Good.”

“But I think you ought to take your own advice, you know.” Cas paused to let that sink in for Dean. No comprehension dawned on him so Cas went on. “You’ve got to make the ultimate decisions in your life, too.”

Dean turned over his shoulder and he and Cas were very close. Dean smiled, like dawn breaking, soft and content. “I made my decision a while ago.”

He turned back around and he brought his pen to the paper to start drawing. He spoke again.

“So far, I’m pretty happy with it.” 

And he began to make his mark.


End file.
